


he has raised me from the pit and set me high

by coloredink



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Priests, Canon-Typical Violence, Clergymen, Courtship, Drama, First Time, Food, Food Porn, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Religion, Religious Content, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I were still a cop, nobody would have called it brave," Will replied.  "Then I would've just been doing my job."</p><p>"But you're no longer an officer of the law," Dr. Lecter said, though the words didn't have the force of a rebuttal.  "I'm curious; what brought you from law enforcement to ministry?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genesis 2:18

**Author's Note:**

> For the Hannibal Spring Fling 2015. Art by the AMAZING [pangaeastarseed](http://pangaeastarseed.tumblr.com/), and betaed by the meticulous pseudoscrivener.

Will noticed all newcomers, as a matter of course; St. Bartholomew's Episcopal Church was a fairly small parish of a hundred and sixty members, eighty of which showed up to any given service, and on the Sunday after Thanksgiving the crowd was even smaller. New faces stuck out, and this one stuck out more than most. He was short and stocky and older, with a wispy corona of graying hair around the crown of his head and a pronounced hunch to his shoulders.

There were still ten minutes until service; people tended to show up at the last minute, or ten minutes after service began, and so there were only a handful of the most devoted few seated in the pews or mingling on the doorstep. Will had observed the man ignore the greeter and brush aside the usher. Now he stood in the narthex, fingers twitching, swaying slightly from side to side as he peered around with narrowed eyes and forward thrust chin. Even Ginger Papania, one of the braver and more garrulous parishioners, seemed doubtful about approaching him.

Mentally ill, probably, but he did not appear to be homeless; his shoes were well-polished, and if Will was not mistaken, the shirt was Armani, and so was his blazer. Will detached himself from a corner of the narthex and approached the man.

"May I help you?" he began. The man swayed toward him, opened his mouth, and thrust his hand inside his jacket. That was when Will saw the gun.

Time slowed down.

"Gun!" Will heard himself yell, as if from far away; stupid, stupid, his parishioners weren't trained, they wouldn't know how to react. They'd start yelling and running around. But Will couldn't worry about that for the moment; he saw the man's arm come up, saw the menacing black body of the weapon. Fortunately, the man was nervous, and clumsy, and untrained. Will slid to the side, grabbed the gun by the slide, and struck the man's wrist with the heel of his hand. The gun came out of the stranger's grasp easily, and just like that all of the fight went out of him. He slumped to his knees, his head hanging, while Will held the gun well away from his body.

Sound came rushing back. Will's ears were ringing, and he realized the gun must have fired. His parishioners were, in fact, yelling and running around. Will was panting.

"Did anyone call the police?" he called.

\-----

 _Fighting Priest Defends Baltimore Church From Gunman_ , ran the Associated Press.

 _Baltimore's Fighting Priest Has a Law Enforcement Background_ , crowed The Baltimore Sun.

Will did not see himself on the evening news--he didn't even own a television--but he was assured by many emails and phone calls from his parishioners that he'd looked very dashing. He assumed that WJZ also gave him the title "The Fighting Priest."

Everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. It would blow over before Christmas.

\-----

Twenty people came to Tuesday evening Bible study, which was about ten more than the church library was really designed to hold. Most of them were people Will didn't even recognize, whose Bibles remained shut in their laps as they made doe eyes at him. One young man kept staring at Will's collar and licking his lips. Will ignored them as best as he could and focused on Romans 15:4-13, but that offered refuge only until Bible study ended, at which point he gave equal weight to the possibility of fleeing to his office and hiding there, or simply heading straight for his car.

"Father Graham," said one young woman with dark hair and blue eyes, who was really very pretty and seemed quite sweet, but whom Will had no interest in whatsoever, especially since she seemed young enough to be his daughter, "so, I grew up Catholic, but I left when I was a teenager because I disagreed with its teachings about, like, women and stuff, but the Episcopalian church ordains women right? I read about it on Wikipedia, and it seems like they're a lot more progressive about that kind of stuff."

" _I_ read that Episcopalian priests, like, don't have to be celibate and stuff," said another young woman, with a blonde pixie-cut and a tattoo of a star on her hand. "Is that true?"

"Um," Will began, while in his head a high, screaming voice babbled _Dear God please get me away from these people._

"Father Graham."

That voice, deep and masculine not at all demanding, came from behind Will. He turned, and there in the doorway was the psychiatrist who'd years ago--before Will had come to this parish--purchased the church's old community space for use as his office. Will passed him on the street sometimes, or smiled at him in the parking lot, but he wasn't sure he'd ever exchanged more than two words altogether with the man.

"Hello," said the psychiatrist. He had his dark green peacoat buttoned up to his throat and a fine leather briefcase in his hand. "I was hoping to catch you before you left. I wanted to know your opinion about the community patrols that they're hoping to start on Brush St., to reduce the amount of car thefts and vandalism that occur there."

"Yes! I would love to talk to you about that!" Will exclaimed, even though he hadn't the least idea what the man was talking about, and to his knowledge there wasn't much in the way of theft and vandalism on that street. "We were just finishing up here," he glanced around; his actual parishioners in attendance had finished stacking the chairs, while the "Fighting Priest" fans hovered between bored and petulant, "so, er, I'm sorry, but if any of you would like to speak to me further, please call during regular business and ask Ursula to make an appointment with me. Thank you for coming, and may God be with you!"

He fled, with his neighbor, toward the parking lot.

"Now what's this about community policing?" Will asked.

"Oh, that was nothing," the psychiatrist said, lips twitching. "I made that up to get you out of there. You looked like a rabbit caught in a trap, surrounded by foxes."

Will gave a bark of laughter. "That was how I _felt_. Well, I owe you one, Dr.--?"

"Dr. Lecter. As a matter of fact, I _have_ been meaning to speak to you, but your church administrator informed me that yesterday was your day off. Did you know the gunman was one of my patients?"

Will started. "No, I didn't."

"I had just referred him, as a matter of fact. That gun may have been meant for me that day, and why he chose to take it to your church is a mystery to me. I'm grateful that you were able to put a stop to it without bloodshed, and I am in deep admiration of your bravery."

"It wasn't bravery," Will said, as he had said dozens of times since Sunday, "it was--"

"Instinct, I know." Dr. Lecter smiled. "A product of your years on the police force. But I remain grateful, and I would like to express that gratitude by asking you to dinner at my home."

They came to their cars, parked side by side in the tiny lot behind the church. Will blinked. "I--"

"Please," said Dr. Lecter. "I insist. Tomorrow night?"

Will swallowed. He had some vague idea that dinner at Dr. Lecter's house was a big deal. He wasn't one for the papers, but some of his parishioners were very into the society pages, and Dr. Lecter's name was not an infrequent one. He had glimpsed a grainy color photograph once of Dr. Lecter in a tuxedo, champagne flute in hand, standing next to a Senator or someone else of import.

"Sure," he said.

\-----

Will's discomfort mounted as his Volvo crawled past increasingly fine, large houses in well-to-do suburban neighborhoods and entered a truly _upscale_ neighborhood, where the homes were set back quite a ways from the street, behind wrought-iron gates and circular driveways. Some of them already had their Christmas lights up: not the cheerful, overwrought, multicolored spectacles of YouTube, but tasteful white lights in straight lines on the eaves and around the windows, elegant illuminated cones meant to represent Christmas trees on their manicured lawns, the occasional spangle of a star in a window.

He had never been welcome in neighborhoods like these as a youth, with his patched clothes and his hands reeking of fish guts and motor oil. The very presence of his Volvo might be bringing down property values.

Dr. Lecter's house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and Will had to sit in the car for a moment and just gape. It looked like a museum, with columns reminiscent of a Greek temple. He didn't have his lights up yet. Did the man live here all by himself? 

Maybe he could talk Dr. Lecter into donating to the church.

Uncertain of where to park--he saw no sign of Dr. Lecter's Bentley--he left his car just to one side of the front door and made his way up the steps, where he couldn't decide whether or not to use the heavy bronze door knocker or the doorbell. He was spared by Dr. Lecter opening the door. "Ah, Father Graham. Come in."

"You can call me Will," he said. He was in jeans and boots and a plaid button-down, his normal attire when he wasn't in vestments. There was no welcome mat, and he hoped he wasn't tracking anything unspeakable onto the polished floors. Dr. Lecter was wearing a three-piece suit. "Sorry, was there a dress code? I think I'm underdressed."

"Nothing of the sort; you are welcome just as you are." Dr. Lecter led the way through a gold-and-cream foyer with an eye-straining pattern on the marble floor and down a deep indigo hallway. Will caught a glimpse of a taxidermied antelope head above the fireplace in his living room; peacock feathers in a vase in the corner; a Degas reproduction on the wall, or was that the real thing? Vaulted ceilings gave the home a cathedral effect. Will could see why Dr. Lecter had wanted the old church community hall for his office, though it and his home must cost a fortune to heat in the winter.

The dining room was deep blue, with a pair of French doors that looked out onto a garden, where Will could see a tiny bridge arched over a koi pond. A wall of herbs--parsley, rosemary, oregano, basil, and more that Will could not make out--lent the room a faint earthy fragrance. Dr. Lecter seated Will across the table and held up a bottle of wine. Will nodded, throat tight, and watched as Dr. Lecter filled his glass halfway with a jewel-dark liquid. He picked it up and took a large gulp without really thinking about it, and was startled by the complexity of flavor that bloomed across his tongue. Suddenly he understood what all those wine reviews meant when they talked about "velvety texture" and "bold, fruity finish." He looked up to see Dr. Lecter smiling at him with genuine pleasure.

"It's good," said Will, though it must have been apparent from his expression.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Dr. Lecter. He placed the bottle back on the table and adjusted his cuffs. He paused. "Do you have any dietary restrictions?"

Will shook his head.

"Excellent."

Dr. Lecter brought out two plates, each one arranged so artfully that Will felt like he was at a restaurant he'd never be able to afford under ordinary circumstances. Four delicate slices of pork tenderloin fanned out across one side of the plate, while on the other was a small, almond-shaped mound of something fluffy and orange. It looked like sorbet but couldn't be sorbet.

"Pork tenderloin, with apple butter and pureed sweet potato mash," said Dr. Lecter as he took his own seat.

"Thank you." Will picked up his silverware and belatedly remembered to put his napkin in his lap. "This looks amazing."

"You're welcome. It's the least I can do for a local hero." Dr. Lecter smiled as he cut into his tenderloin and ran it through the drizzle of apple butter. Will followed his example. "Will you tell me how it happened? I've read the newspaper articles, but they contain very little of your point of view."

Will finished chewing and swallowed his piece of pork. "There's nothing much to tell that I haven't told the papers." He recounted the story as he had told the police and to various reporters: the man's suspicious and erratic behavior; Will's lucky glimpse of the gun; his subsequent instinctive and well-trained reaction. "He did manage to get off a couple of shots, as it turns out, but they missed; took some plaster out of the ceiling."

"We're fortunate that nobody was injured, especially yourself," said Dr. Lecter. "The world needs more brave men."

"If I were still a cop, nobody would have called it brave," Will replied. "Then I would've just been doing my job."

"But you're no longer an officer of the law," Dr. Lecter said, though the words didn't have the force of a rebuttal. "I'm curious; what brought you from law enforcement to ministry?"

This was the inevitable follow-up question, when people learned that Will had once worked in law enforcement. Will cut his next slice of tenderloin into bite-sized pieces as he spoke. "I got stabbed, while I was on the force, and I had a lot of time in the hospital, afterward, to think about my life, and what I was or wasn't doing with it. It was an isolating experience; I realized that I didn't have any friends. So I talked to the hospital chaplain a lot, and I realized that I missed church, the community and spirituality that came with it. My father used to take me, when I was a kid, but as I got older I'd drifted away. So I started going again, after the hospital, and one thing led to the next, and eventually I quit the force and went to seminary. It's actually very common," he added. "A lot of people in the ministry are ex-law enforcement, or ex-military."

Dr. Lecter took a sip of wine. He kept his eyes on the glass as he set it down again. "I grew up Catholic; nearly everyone in Lithuania is Catholic, although I cannot say that my parents were terribly observant. We did not even go to church every Sunday."

Will nodded; this part of the conversation was also familiar. When people found out that he was a priest, they often felt compelled to either reassure him of their own religiosity, or throw their atheism in his face.

However, he wasn't prepared for when Dr. Lecter looked up and said, "But my parents died when I was young, and I was sent to an orphanage. It was there that I learnt my prayers, and how to pray the rosary, and other such accoutrements of a Catholic upbringing."

"I'm sorry," said Will.

Dr. Lecter did not do anything so inelegant as shrug, but he tilted his head in a manner that suggested it. "It was a long time ago. Did you grow up Episcopalian?"

"I grew up Catholic," said Will. "And I went to a Catholic church for a while, after I got out of the hospital. Habit. But I converted before I went to seminary."

"Why?"

"It was a better fit for me. The same rituals, but more progressive politics. And," Will cleared his throat, "they ordain openly gay men."

Will took a swallow of wine to cover up his nervousness. Oftentimes people didn't know how to respond, and the pause that ballooned then was awkward, heavy with desperation and anxiety. But he had his suspicions about Dr. Lecter and why he'd asked Will to dinner, and sure enough, a slow smile spread across Dr. Lecter's face, until he was the very picture of the cat who'd caught the canary.

"Is that so," he drawled, and Will smiled.

\-----

Dr. Lecter invited him to dinner again the following Monday: Will's day off, and evidently Dr. Lecter's day off as well. This time Will came dressed for the occasion, with a jacket and tie and a bottle of wine. Dr. Lecter opened the door in what was clearly his idea of dressed down: no jacket and a cashmere sweater. It made Will smile to think that Dr. Lecter had been trying to meet him at his level, at least sartorially.

"Sorry, the wine's probably nowhere near as good as what you already have," Will said as he handed over a bottle.

"There is wine appropriate for every occasion," Dr. Lecter said. "I hope you won't mind if I don't open it; I've already opened a bottle for tonight."

Will shook his head.

Christmas had descended on the Lecter house over the weekend. The exterior of Dr. Lecter's front door bore a pine and holly wreath, and pine garland wound around the doorframe and the pillars; a ten foot Christmas tree loomed in a corner of the living room, decorated with white and gold globes; more pine festooned the mantelpiece and the stairway banister; tasteful white fairy lights spangled the ceiling spaces. The rooms smelled like cinnamon and fir. Will took a deep breath and felt his diaphragm ease.

"This is beautiful. I don't even have my tree yet," Will remarked.

Dr. Lecter flashed him a smile. "The wonders of professional decorators. I'm glad you like it."

He deposited Will in the dining room before whisking the wine away to...Will wouldn't have been surprised if he had an actual wine cellar in this place. The dining room bore little sign of the seasonal effects in the outer room, save for the red tapers in the candle holders. A decanter of wine stood already open on the dinner table, and Will took the liberty of pouring their glasses. Dr. Lecter returned bearing two plates.

"Duck l'orange," he announced. "A classic French preparation, and one of my favorites. With a watercress and frisée salad, with celery root and green apple." He set the plates down and poured red-orange sauce over slices of pink meat from a silver sauce boat. "Bon appétit. Thank you for pouring the wine."

"You're welcome. You know, I don't think I've ever had duck before," Will remarked, picking up his knife and fork. "Maybe once or twice when I was a little kid, and my dad hunted." 

"I hope you find it to your liking."

The food was almost too beautiful to eat, but Will's appetite got the better of him eventually. He sawed one of the slices of duck in half, ran it through the sauce, and brought it to his mouth. Flavor burst over his tongue: the sweet and tangy sauce, the rich and bold duck, in perfect concert together. He couldn't suppress a little moan, and it was hard not to talk with his mouth full. "I could get used to coming over here for dinner; your food is always amazing."

Dr. Lecter smiled. It made his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it did uncomfortable things to Will's stomach. "I'm glad you think so. I'm very particular on what I put into my body, and so I cook most of my food myself; I like to think I've developed some skill as a result."

"Your body is a temple, huh?" Will took a bite of the salad. It was crisp, light, refreshing: a nice counterpoint from the almost overwhelming flavors of the duck and the sauce. "Well I for one am glad to be able to reap the rewards."

"And I am glad to be able to offer them to you."

Will kept his eyes on his plate as he chewed. This was flirting, wasn't it? Was this a date? It had been a long time since he'd dated. There had been one or two brief affairs, in seminary and afterward, but none of them had stuck, and Will had to admit, if only to himself, that the Catholic Church's approach made a certain amount of sense: it was difficult to devote oneself to God _and_ family. While he was by no means celibate, Will had resigned himself to a certain amount of solitude; it was not as if he lacked fulfillment in his life.

But now Dr. Lecter was here, and very handsome, and--much to Will's disbelief--appeared to be interested. And he was a _very_ good cook.

"You have questions," said Dr. Lecter. "Ask them."

Will put down his fork and raised his eyes with effort. "Sorry, I--is this a date?"

Dr. Lecter's eyebrows lifted. "Would you like it to be one?"

Sweat rose around Will's collar. "Yes," he forced out past the tightness in his throat.

Dr. Lecter's smile widened. "Then yes."

A little laugh worked its way past the tightness in Will's throat. "That's it? So this is a date now?"

"There's no need for it to be more complicated than that," Dr. Lecter replied. He picked up his wine glass, but before he took a sip, he said, "Since this is a date, let's commence with the requisite conversational pleasantries. Hobbies, for instance: you mentioned that your father hunted; do you hunt as well?"

Will felt like he'd drunk too much wine, though the amount in his glass was hardly lower than it had been. "I prefer fishing."

The conversation this time was easier. Dr. Lecter did not bring up church, or religion, or the incident last Sunday that continued to plague Will with book deals and offers of talk show interviews. Instead, they made the usual sort of small talk that people made during dates. Will talked of fly fishing, growing up in the South, and his three dogs. Dr. Lecter mentioned that he composed music as a hobby, and that he played the harpsichord, piano, and theremin. He grew up in Europe and moved to the United States for medical school, and was now a U.S. citizen. He had been a surgeon for a while, and given that up about ten years ago for psychiatry.

"That's quite a switch," said Will.

"I killed a patient," said Dr. Lecter. "Or it felt like I did."

Will nodded. It would not have been the first time that had happened; Dr. Lecter had been a trauma surgeon for many years, and many people must have died beneath his hands. Not the first time, but the last.

"It was an awakening not unlike yours, perhaps," Dr. Lecter went on. "Psychiatrists and priests are not so unalike; the nebulous realms of emotion and spirit are more similar than different. Now I care for minds rather than bodies, and no one has died as a result of my therapy."

"No one's died as a result of my ministry, either," Will said with a half-formed smile. "As far as I know, anyway. It's less of a burden, that's for sure, except around the holidays."

There was dessert, this time: apples poached in red wine. Will's came to the table on an ebony-black plate with a swirl of freshly whipped cream. It smelled strongly of autumn spices and was so tender that Will could carve off pieces with a spoon.

"Amazing," he said, feeling stupid; it must have been the fourth time he'd said that this evening.

But Dr. Lecter did not seem to have tired of it yet. "I'm glad you like it. I usually use pears, but I spied these beautiful Pink Lady apples at the market and thought I would try something different."

Will cleaved off another spoonful of apple. "Are you tempting me, Dr. Lecter?"

"Apples are not native to the Middle East," Dr. Lecter replied. "If I were tempting you with forbidden fruit, I'd do better to try a pomegranate, or a fig, or a quince. At least one rabbi has made an argument for the forbidden fruit being a grape, made into wine."

"You're well-educated on theological matters?"

"I have a keen interest in the arts: the symphony, opera, classical literature, pre-modern art. In that vein, I've educated myself on cultural matters, and religion is key to cultural literacy."

Will sucked syrup off his spoon as he assimilated this information into what he already knew of Dr. Lecter. "But you don't consider yourself a religious man?"

"I am not currently practicing, no. Whether I am religious or not is subjective." Dr. Lecter glanced up from his plate. "Does that bother you?"

"No," Will said. "No, not at all."

The conversation wound down and passed into easy silence, spoons scraping whipped cream off of plates. Dr. Lecter refused all offers of help with cleanup, and after he'd whisked the remainder of their dishes away to the kitchen, he saw Will to the door.

They lingered on the doorstep, Dr. Lecter standing just a little too close. Will could smell the lingering aroma of wine and cinnamon and clove.

"I would ask you to spend the night," Dr. Lecter murmured, "but you must be getting back to your dogs."

Will sighed. "Yeah." But he didn't move. "Maybe next time you can come to my place. Though it's," he winced, "I mean, it's nothing like this."

"I'll be there to visit you, not your environment. Though I look forward to seeing you in your natural habitat. Whenever you're comfortable."

Will took half a step back, not without reluctance. "I'll see you on Sunday, Doc--" He stopped. If this was a date--and Dr. Lecter had said as much--then he could hardly keep calling him "Dr. Lecter."

Dr. Lecter dipped in to brush a kiss against Will's lips. It was warm and nearly chaste, and Will tilted back in to return it with a little more ardor. Dr. Lecter gave him a smile that showed surprisingly irregular teeth. "Please," he said. "Call me Hannibal."


	2. Solomon 2:4

It was night, and cold, and dark. Fog lay across the fields. Cold grass brushed against Will's calves, and pebbles dug into his bare feet. He put his toes down first before letting the rest of his foot press against the ground.

Ahead of him, though he could not see it, was the stag. Will had been hunting him for some time now, a big, beautiful beast such as Will had never seen in his life. He clutched his rifle close as he followed the stag's trail through the silvered grass and toward the tree line. He knew that other hunters used that trail. One of them might get to this stag before he did.

But it was night, and cold, and dark, and the elk was cunning.

Somehow, Will was in the woods already. He could hear the stag's heavy breathing, as if the animal were close by. Sweat prickled the back of his neck.

They broke out into a clearing. The stag was already there, ears pricked and facing forward, giving Will every ounce of his attention. Spread out on a table in front of him was a feast: colorful bowls of leafy salads, a whole roasted turkey, a bright red lobster with its shell split open, a plate of cheese and fruit. The stag bowed his head over the spread. Will stood with his jaw slack and his rifle grasped loosely in his hands, uncertain of what to do.

The stag glared at him and leapt over the table to pick up Will up in his antlers and fling him into the air, as if he weighed nothing at all.

\-----

Will opened his eyes. Light streamed in through the bedroom window and sent lancing pain through his temples. 

_Dear God: Ow._

Will rubbed a hand across his face and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Excited nails clicked against the floor as Will staggered downstairs and opened the front door for the dogs. They bounded out onto the grass and tore around in circles as Will poured kibble into the metal dishes. "Okay!" he yelled, and they bounced up the steps and began crunching with enthusiasm. The noise felt like railroad spikes being driven through his skull. Will went back inside, started his coffee, and found a half-empty bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet.

After coffee, after toast and the headache receding, Will looked up and realized that Hannibal was coming over tonight, and that his house was a mess and unfit for human visitors.

As the dogs looked on, Will trashed papers and accumulated drifts of Christmas sale junk mail, reshelved books, and wiped down counters. He swept and vacuumed up piles of dog hair. He opened the refrigerator and counted mustard, ketchup, relish, hot dogs, and half a carton of eggs. The freezer contained three frozen pizzas, a box of frozen burritos, and a couple of frozen trout, already cleaned. Will moved them to the refrigerator to thaw. At least the liquor cabinet was well stocked. 

No time to go to the store right now: he had to get to the church for Wednesday afternoon Eucharist. Will looked forward to it; the "tourists" had not tried to invade the mid-week Eucharist. Either they didn't know there was a Wednesday afternoon Eucharist (even though it said so, right on the church website) or they had to work. Either way, it suited Will just fine.

That Wednesday, however, amongst the regular handful of gray-haired parishioners who attended Wednesday afternoon Eucharist, there was a stranger: a stout gentleman with curly, graying hair who came ten minutes after the service began and sat in the back. Will kept an eye on him throughout the service: he stood at all the appropriate moments but did not move his lips, did not even attempt to pick up the Book of Common Prayer; and he was overdressed, with a certain seriousness of expression and straightness of posture that suggested a professional. Will felt a low curl of dread in his gut.

The visitor _did_ come down the aisle during Communion, and crossed his arms for a blessing rather than the Eucharist. Will put his hand on the crown of the man's head; the man leaned forward and murmured, "May I speak to you for a few minutes after the service, Father Graham?"

"Certainly," Will sighed, and mumbled his way through the blessing. The man returned to his seat.

After the service, Will took his usual spot in the doorway where parishioners could shake his hand and speak to him on the way out. The visitor interrupted Martha Kowalski's update on her sister's stroke with a brusque, "Is there someplace private we can talk?"

"Please don't interrupt my conversations with my congregants," Will took great delight in saying. "We can speak in my office in about fifteen minutes." And if Will drew out Mrs. Kowalski's update, and asked Mrs. Papania extra questions about her hip replacement, well, he was only being a caring minister.

Almost half an hour later, Will went upstairs and found the visitor loitering outside of his office. "Please, come in," he said, unlocking the door.

"Agent Jack Crawford, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation," the man said, before Will even had the chance to offer him tea or coffee. "You're a difficult man to track down, Will Graham."

"I can't be that difficult, since you found me," Will said. He set the electric kettle to boil, more to have something to do with his hands than anything else. "Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you." Agent Crawford heaved himself down into one of the cracked leather armchairs. Will's desk was on the other side of the room, shoved practically into a corner, stacked high with papers and surrounded by overflowing bookshelves. He didn't talk to people from his desk; it made him feel like a lawyer or a CEO. For conversations, he had two armchairs set up across from each other, beside the window, which faced the street and had a purple orchid blooming on the windowsill.

"I'll cut to the chase: I'm here to ask for a favor," said Crawford. "We think--I think--that the Chesapeake Ripper is back."

Will eased himself into the other chair. He had been assigned to this parish shortly after the height of Ripper mania, two years ago. The headlines had been lurid; the photographs, in color and above the fold, even more so. "That's terrible, but what does it have to do with me?"

"You were a detective with the New Orleans Police Department."

Will's stomach sank. "Yes. Many years ago."

"And when you were with the department, there was this...thing, that you did. It made you a very successful detective."

Will pressed his lips together. "I interpreted the evidence, same as any other detective."

"Yes, but there was an additional talent." Crawford peered into Will's face. Will fought hard not to look away. He could discern lines of stress around Crawford's eyes and mouth and thought that the gray in his hair was probably new. "I won't lie, Mr.--Father. There was some hope that you'd join us, someday, use your skills on a federal level. Instead you got stabbed, disappeared, and then reappeared here, as a priest, of all things."

"What exactly are you asking me to do?"

"I'm on the way to see the latest Ripper victim," said Crawford. "Come with me. Tell me if it's really the Ripper or not, and if it is, how we can catch him."

"No."

Crawford didn't move. "You're the only one who can do this."

Will knuckled his eyes; he could feel a headache beginning to form. "I'm not. And what I did, back then, it," he let his hand drop, "it wasn't good for me. It was _bad_ for me. I'm in a good place now, I do good work, and I'm not going back to, to that."

Crawford lowered his voice. "He's killed sixteen people that we know of, and if he's back, there'll be three or four more. If we don't catch him this time, it might be another two years, and we might not catch him then, either. He could go on killing like this for decades; he already has. We both want the same thing: we don't want more people to die."

A cleared throat caught their attentions. Will looked up and couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face at the sight of Hannibal in the doorway. "Hannibal!"

"I'm sorry," said Hannibal. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, no, Agent Crawford here was just on his way out."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "Agent Crawford?"

Crawford rose from his seat. "Dr. Lecter," he said, with a curt nod, and saw himself out.

Will collapsed back in his chair and gave Hannibal a small smile. Hannibal returned it and took the chair that Crawford had just vacated. They sat there for a moment, smiling at each other, until Will gave a little laugh and rubbed his hand across his beard. "FBI," he said. "I'm not being investigated or anything. They were here asking for a favor, actually."

"We have met, albeit briefly," said Hannibal. "I am familiar with his name and reputation. One of my colleagues, Alana Bloom, does some consulting for the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

"He was after me to do the same," said Will. "I was hoping people had forgotten, but I guess law enforcement has a long memory."

"When it comes to justice, it does," Hannibal said. He crossed his legs and laced his fingers over his knee. "What did Crawford think you could do?"

Will sighed. "He thinks the Chesapeake Ripper is back."

"Oh?"

"He wanted me to look at the crime scene." Will licked his lips and sat forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together. "I'm a good detective. Was a good detective. I have an eidetic memory." He tapped his temple with one finger. "I'm good at remembering things, putting the pieces together, interpreting the evidence. And also...I had a psych eval, before I entered the ministry, and the psychiatrist said it was pure empathy. Too many mirror neurons, or something."

Hannibal drew in a deep breath through his nose. He sat back in his seat. "Pure empathy," he repeated in a tone of wonder. Will shifted in his seat and dreaded the moment Hannibal turned calculating, academic eyes on him. He was a psychiatrist, after all.

But Hannibal turned back to Will with the same fond look as before. "So you can see from anyone's point of view. Mine, or Crawford's, or--"

"Or the Chesapeake Ripper." Will rubbed his palms down the front of his cassock. "It wasn't--it wasn't good for me, what I did when I was on the force. Put myself in the place of murderers and rapists and thieves and drug dealers. It made me a good cop, but it put me in a bad place. It made me...not myself."

"You don't just reflect," said Hannibal. "You absorb."

Will nodded. "It took a lot of work to get to where I am today. These days, all I use it for is pastoral care." He shrugged and didn't look at Hannibal. "I want to keep it that way."

Hannibal uncrossed his legs. He smiled. "I'm glad you have such a good sense of your boundaries." He paused. "And now that you have such a good sense of your boundaries, do you not think that you could do this work, without losing yourself in it?"

"Are you telling me I should have said yes to Crawford?"

"I'm not telling you what you should or should have done. But, Will…" Hannibal leaned forward with an earnest expression. "I've known you a very short time, but I know that you're a good man, who is concerned about the welfare of others. I knew that about you even when I only knew you as the priest at the church next door to my office. Knowing that about you, my concern is that it would consume you if more people were hurt, or killed, and you felt that there was some real and concrete way you could have prevented it."

Will looked down at his hands. He didn't reply at first and Hannibal didn't push him. At last, Will said, "What did you come to see me about?"

"I wanted to clarify our plans for tonight."

When Will looked up, Hannibal was smiling, and Will's diaphragm eased at the sight. "You couldn't have just sent a text message?"

Hannibal's smile widened. "Perhaps I wanted to see you."

Will very nearly giggled. He felt stupid and childish, and he loved it. "Well, it's a good thing; you were just in time to rescue me from Agent Crawford."

"And I'm very glad I did."

\-----

Will stopped by Giant Food on his way home and picked up corn, bread, and beer for tonight's dinner, along with a few other necessities. As he reached for the Challenge brand butter, with its majestic stag posing before a lake and a mountain range, he recalled with sudden clarity the dream from that morning. He did not believe in dream symbolism, per se, or prescient dreams, or visions from God, and yet it seemed too vivid and surreal to not have some significance.

He dropped the butter in his basket. Maybe he would ask Hannibal about it, later.

\-----

Hannibal arrived at Will's home at 5pm, bearing a baguette and a bottle of wine, dressed down in a polar fleece jacket and khakis. Will had just fired up the grill. He offered Hannibal his choice of the wine that he'd just brought, Sam Adams, or Maker's Mark. Hannibal agreed to the whiskey, and Will poured them both two generous fingers, offered Hannibal ice (which he refused), and guided him to a seat in the living room. The dogs followed with cautious but optimistic tails.

"Ruth, Jonah, and Theo," Will introduced them. Hannibal gravely offered his hand for a sniff; Theo complied and wandered off, but Ruth and Jonah remained sitting on their haunches, staring at the baguette.

"How was your day?" Will asked.

"Nothing to remark upon," said Hannibal. "Mundane, as far as my days go. I ran some errands, caught up on some paperwork. I visited a friend at lunch." They exchanged mischievous smiles.

"Same," said Will. "Although I had an annoying visit from a federal agent."

"You intend to continue refusing to provide aid, then?"

"I don't see any compelling reason to provide it."

"Harsh words, from a priest," Hannibal teased.

Will let out a snort into his glass and nearly coughed up his whiskey. "God, don't remind me," he muttered. "You know, it's almost hard to believe this is happening. Most men don't really want to date a, a priest."

"I see you only secondarily as a priest, if at all," said Hannibal. "I see you first and foremost as a very interesting person."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that," Will said, but he didn't attempt to suppress his smile. He pushed himself out of his chair. Theo, who'd been lying down nearby, immediately leapt to his feet. "Lemme see if the grill's hot yet."

It was, and Will grilled two trout, corn, and a couple pieces of Hannibal's baguette. It was nice to have Hannibal around, someone to fetch plates and bring him his drink and stand around as Will waited for the corn to char enough on one side to turn. Hannibal stood too close and touched Will often: his elbow, his shoulder, the small of his back. It made Will uncomfortable, but not in an unpleasant way.

They ate on the back porch, plates in their laps, their clothes still smelling of charcoal and smoke. The dogs sprawled around them with hopeful expressions and twitching noses, but neither of them dropped any food.

"This is delicious," Hannibal said. "Thank you. You caught these fish yourself?"

"Every spring and summer I freeze as much as I can, to last me through the winter."

"You eat mostly fish, then?"

"A lot, yeah. The occasional steak, to liven things up. Bacon." Will decided not to bring up the frozen burritos. He hoped Hannibal didn't look in his freezer. "This doesn't mean I don't love the stuff you've been cooking. I just don't cook that kind of thing for myself very often. Or at all."

"And I hope to have many more opportunities to be able to feed you rarities," Hannibal said.

They finished their food. The cold descended on them quickly after that, and they went back inside. Will started a fire in the fireplace while Hannibal washed the dishes and refreshed their glasses of whiskey. They sat in front of the flames and sipped their drinks, close enough that Will could reach out to touch his knee. So he did.

"Are you staying the night?" he asked.

Hannibal looked at Will over his glass. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes." Will bit his lip. He was not unaware of how it made him look.

Hannibal set his glass down on the end table very, very carefully. He reached out slowly, so that Will had plenty of time and space to back away. Will froze, and so Hannibal was able to cup his jaw and bring him in for a kiss.

It was a very nice kiss, all things considered: friendly, but not overbearing. Will trembled with it, because he couldn't remember the last time someone had kissed him like this; indeed, he couldn't remember the last time someone had touched his face that wasn't his dentist. He had a moment where he worried about the smell and taste of his breath, or the texture of his beard, and then those were gone as Hannibal opened his mouth against Will's.

Will pulled away, just a little, so that their mouths were no longer touching. "My bedroom's upstairs."

They were so close that Will felt Hannibal's smile rather than saw it. "Aren't you forward?"

"You were the one who insisted that I come over for dinner at your house and wouldn't take no for an answer."

Hannibal hummed and pressed another close-lipped kiss against Will's mouth. "Show me."

Will had changed the sheets on the bed, so they felt clean and soft against his skin after they undressed and got into bed. Neither of them was hard yet, and it was fine to just lie against each other and kiss and cherish that warm curl of excitement and arousal. Hannibal wound his arms around Will's ribs and splayed his hands out against the backs of Will's shoulders. Will hitched one leg up over Hannibal's thigh to press him closer, and Hannibal chuckled into the kiss. It made a stupid grin light up on Will's face, and he buried his face in Hannibal's neck.

"What do you want to do?" Hannibal murmured against Will's hair.

"I don't know. I didn't really think that far ahead," Will admitted.

Hannibal traced his fingers across the backs of Will's shoulders. The touch left pleasant gooseflesh in its wake. "Do you want my mouth? My hand? Do you want me to fuck you?"

"No penetration, I think," Will mumbled. He felt so lazy and heavy. "Too much work."

Hannibal puffed a laugh against Will's ear. "Then what about this?" He snaked one hand between them and cupped Will's cock. It had been thickening, but under the dry warmth of Hannibal's touch it grew even more interested.

"That's good," Will breathed. He shifted and looped his arms around Hannibal's shoulders and pressed his hips toward Hannibal's hand. Hannibal rolled them so that Will was flat on his back and Hannibal could brace his weight above Will on one arm. He spat into his other hand, never taking his eyes from Will's all the while, and began to jerk Will with firm, precise strokes. Will bit his lip and closed his eyes against Hannibal's dark, omniscient gaze.

"No," Hannibal said. "Look at me."

Will shook his head.

"Look at me, Will."

Will opened his eyes. Hannibal's hair, usually so pristine, had come loose and mussed, falling across his forehead in a soft sweep. His expression had rearranged into something of fathomless hunger. Will felt his breath come faster. The pleasant warmth that had suffused him earlier turned hot and urgent. He couldn't stop the noises that whined out of his throat.

"Hannibal, I'm," he said, and came, back arching, nails digging into Hannibal's back. Hannibal continued stroking even as Will writhed and twisted, stopping when Will went completely limp. "Oh God," Will said between pants. "Oh God."

Hannibal brought his hand up and licked it clean, and Will couldn't take his eyes away. Hannibal brought his spit-shiny hand down to stroke his own erection a few times, and Will couldn't take his eyes away. Hannibal crawled up Will's body to sit on his chest, and Will opened his mouth and let him in. Hannibal gripped the headboard with both hands and rocked his hips forward, then backward, just a few inches. Will groaned around his thick, luscious mouthful, saliva already leaking out the corners of his mouth to wet his beard. Hannibal grunted and thrust forward, perhaps a little more sharply than he meant to. Will clutched at Hannibal's hips, digging his fingers into Hannibal's springy buttocks, and pulled. It was a clear sign and Hannibal took it, putting more of his weight on his knees so that he could properly fuck Will's mouth. Will gagged and drooled and loved every minute of it, toes curling into the sheets. The air filled with Hannibal's sighs, the slick sounds of his cock in Will's mouth, the smell of fucking.

Hannibal pulled out. Will gasped and coughed; he felt cold and bereft. He looked up at Hannibal, who gazed down at Will like an imperious god, hand moving in regular motions over his cock. Will opened his mouth; most of Hannibal's come landed on his tongue, but a bit fell on his face. Will swallowed all of it and ran his tongue over his lips for the rest.

"You have some in your beard," Hannibal murmured, running a thumb across Will's jaw. He showed Will the glistening, pearlescent strand. Will sucked it off, and Hannibal gave a hum of approval.

They lay down curled against each other, and Will pulled the sheets over both of them. He should let the dogs out for their before-bed bathroom break, but right now he felt too sated to move. His lips were bruised and his throat was sore, his head didn't hurt, and he was probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes.

He did.

\-----

It was dark, and night, and Will's breath rose in a white cloud in front of his face.

He didn't know what he was doing out here, with a rifle in his hands and not even an orange safety vest on. Foolishness, to go hunting at night like this. But it was important; he felt it in the tension in his neck and shoulders and the sweat that dripped from his hair. Whatever it was he was hunting, it was dangerous, and he had to find it tonight.

He heard grunts from down the trail, something crashing through the underbrush, snapping twigs underfoot and kicking up dirt. Will's heart sped up, and he crouched even lower, back protesting. He crept forward by inches, flinching every time he crunched on a leaf or kicked up a twig, but there was too much commotion coming from up ahead for it to make much difference.

A clearing opened up before him, and Will stopped at the very edge and took shelter behind a black pine.

The bear was wounded, its fur matted and torn, its muzzle dripping blood. The stag, in comparison, was untouched, his antlers tipped with crimson. Both animals panted and steamed in the cold night air. They circled each other, their flanks heaving. Then one or both of them lunged, and they met in a mighty clash in the middle of the clearing, claws raking and antlers shaking, bellowing to shake the trees. They broke apart again; the stag had blood on his face, but it did not appear to be his, and the bear now favored its left side.

Will didn't know which one he'd come to hunt.

The stag looked up, ears twitching forward. Will held his breath. The stag lowered its head and charged, past the bear and straight for Will.

\-----

Will startled awake, his heart hammering against his chest. He'd sweated through his side of the sheets, and he winced. He debated whether or not to wake Hannibal in order to change the sheets, or should he just slink out of bed, or--

"Will?" Hannibal mumbled. A light sleeper, apparently.

"I think I need to let the dogs out," Will said; it was not quite a lie. He hadn't let them out before bed as he usually did. "I'll be right back."

He wrapped himself in the ratty old bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door and padded downstairs in his bare feet, hands tucked into his armpits. The dogs jumped to their feet as soon as Will set foot on the lower level and followed him to the door with eager whines and lashing tails. "Sit," he hissed. They sat. He opened the door and stepped outside. "Come," he said, and the dogs clattered onto the back porch with him.

Will stayed standing on the back porch, arms crossed over his chest, as the dogs ranged back and forth in the tall grass. After a moment, he heard a creak behind him as someone else joined him: Hannibal, still in his boxers, but with his jacket on over his shoulders as a concession to the chill.

Hannibal came up close behind him, enough so that Will could feel the heat radiating off of his skin. Will leaned back into it, and Hannibal put an arm around Will's shoulders. Will sighed.

"You had a nightmare," Hannibal said.

"Mmm," said Will.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"It was weird," said Will. "I had a dream very like it last night." He told Hannibal about the stag that he had hunted for two nights now; the bear; the final, deadly charge. Hannibal listened with focus and attention but no words, his hand warm on Will's shoulder even through the terrycloth.

"Do you ascribe any meaning to it?" Hannibal asked.

"If you're asking if I believe in dream symbolism, not really," said Will. "But I've learned to pay attention to my dreams. God works in mysterious ways, so they say--but more to the point, they do sometimes reflect what I'm worried about, even if I haven't acknowledged it to myself."

"And what are you so worried about?"

Will was silent for a moment. Ruth, always the first to get cold, came scrambling up the back porch steps and darted back into the house.

"I'm worried about hunting something I don't know or understand," Will said.

"You're afraid that it will hurt others who understand it less," said Hannibal. "It looks like prey, but it acts like a predator. It's stronger, even, than other predators. You're the only one who knows its true nature."

Will sighed. "You want me to help Crawford, don't you?"

Hannibal squeezed Will's shoulder. "I would be lying if I said I didn't care one way or another; I do, and I think it would bother you if the Ripper took lives that you could have saved. You'd always be asking yourself, 'what if'? But I respect that you know your own mind, and that you have a good sense of your boundaries."

Will yawned and whistled for Theo and Jonah, who came trotting up with heads raised and ears pricked. He waved them inside the house. "Ask your friend, colleague, Alana Bloom. Tell her to tell Crawford to get in touch with me."


	3. Leviticus 4:3

Crawford was waiting outside after Thursday afternoon's staff meeting, his hands in the pockets of his dark blue peacoat and looking about as inconspicuous as a jaguar in a living room. Unlike the Wednesday Eucharist, the regular staff meetings were _not_ advertised on the website, and Will wondered how Crawford had known he would be here. He also wondered how long he'd been loitering outside. It was quite cold.

"Dr. Bloom said you'd changed your mind," said Crawford.

"I--" Will began, and fell silent when Crawford drew a thick manila envelope from under his coat. It was stiff and heavy under Will's fingers. The front and back were blank. "Is this what I think it is? Because if so, I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to leave Quantico."

"My business card is inside. Let me know what you find," said Crawford. "Good night, Father." He started off down the street.

"Peace be with you," Will called after him. Crawford lifted a hand but did not reply.

The envelope hummed in Will's hand all the way to his car, and it hummed from the passenger seat the hour-long drive back to his home in Wolf Trap, Virginia. He wanted to tear it open and silence the curious buzzing, but instead he tossed it on the dining room table and whistled for the dogs. Only after they'd been fed and walked did Will microwave a burrito for himself. Will leaned against the counter and closed his eyes as his dinner spun round on the glass plate.

_Dear God: Please guide my hand and my heart, as You always do, in my eternal quest to seek justice and love kindness just as You do. Give me the strength and courage to look upon the horrors of Man without forgetting Your own lovingkindness, help me to remember their humanity, and let me always walk humbly with Your presence. Amen._

He opened the envelope.

Photos. Stacks and stacks of glossy color photos, paper-clipped to their corresponding reports and arranged in chronological order. The first photo on the stack was a wide shot of a blond, Caucasian woman in her mid-forties, her eyes closed in death. A little bit of blood dribbled from one corner of her mouth. She had been dismembered and her pieces stacked into a pyramid, with her head arranged on top. The other photographs were at various angles and distances. They all bore the same neatly printed label on the back: _Ripper Victim #1 - Sarah Bradshaw - 1/25/2003_. According to the report, the Ripper had taken her lungs and her tongue. She had had two children and worked in a bakery. Her children would be grown by now.

A headache lanced through Will's right temple. He winced and shook more photos out of the envelope.

Jeffrey Bale: staked out naked on a hillside with a burnt torch in one hand, missing his liver. Leah Friedman: planted in a flower bed with white roses in her eyes, missing her heart. Robert Rivera: his foot cut off and shoved down his own throat, missing his kidneys. Will laid the photos out one after another, moving his now-cold burrito to the kitchen counter to make room. It was a good thing he'd cleaned it before Hannibal arrived yesterday, or there would have been no space. The dogs sniffed around hopefully. Jonah whined.

The phone rang. Will glanced at the display, thumb hovering over the Reject Call button. It said _Hannibal_. Will moved his thumb to the left and accepted the call.

"Did Agent Crawford find you?" Hannibal asked.

"Yep," Will said. "He handed me an envelope of photos and walked away without so much as a by your leave."

"The man is very efficient."

"I thought it was rude."

Hannibal made a soft, amused sound.

The final photo was dated the day before yesterday: the victim that Crawford had wanted Will to come see. Alexander Murray, Caucasian, early thirties. Found propped up in a hotel bathtub, blood streaked on his face and clothing. Missing kidney. Will frowned down at it, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb.

"Are you looking at the photos?"

"All over the dining room table."

"A gruesome Thursday night activity. How are you feeling?"

"Better than you'd think, actually." Will sat down and scanned the photos from first to last, pausing now and then on particular ones: the white roses blooming out of Ms. Friedman's face; Mr. Killick's tongue, left in the Bible as a bookmark; Mr. Bale, a modern-day Prometheus holding the flame of humanity. "This is going to sound completely insane, but they're so beautiful it's hard to see them as murder." He paused. "I'm sorry. That's totally inappropriate."

"Not at all," Hannibal replied. "It's normal to distance ourselves from the distressing. It's how we keep ourselves sane. Do you really find them beautiful?"

"They are. They're...thoughtful. He's not some slasher on a power trip. I mean, he is--all serial killers are on a power trip of some kind--but he puts more effort into it. He makes them into...art." Will took a deep breath. "His idea of art. He sees them as pigs, ugly and not deserving of life, and he makes them into something worthy."

Hannibal did not reply. Will turned his attention back to Mr. Murray, propped up like a doll in the bathtub. "There's something wrong with this last one, though."

"Wrong?"

"Yeah. This is the one on Sunday that Agent Crawford wanted me to go see. It's just this guy propped up in the bathtub of a hotel room. I can see why they think it's the Ripper--he was opened up, they took his kidney, the way he's sitting up in the bathtub _sort_ of looks like he was displayed...but not really. Not like the others. This one feels...sloppy. Unfinished. It's crude."

"Maybe he was interrupted."

Will snorted. "Anyone who can plant a woman in a flowerbed with roses coming out of her skull doesn't get interrupted. This isn't the Ripper."

"Agent Crawford will be disappointed, then."

"Yeah, well, he'll just have to live with it." Will looked back down at the photos of Mr. Murray. There were several, as there had been of all the others: a broad view, a close up, a close up from another angle, a broad view from another angle. For a brief moment he wished that he'd gone to the crime scene after all: examined the blood spatter, touched the wounds with gloved hands, really _looked_ at the evidence. There was so much information he was missing. If he'd gone on Sunday, maybe he could have helped them track down the real killer, even if that killer wasn't the Ripper.

He banished the thought and started stacking the photographs to put them back in the envelope.

"May I see you?" Hannibal asked.

Will glanced up at the clock. It was already past ten o' clock. "Right now?"

"If you don't mind. I don't have any morning appointments tomorrow."

Will dropped the photos back into the envelope. "No, I don't mind. I'd like that, actually."

"Then I'll see you soon."

Hannibal hung up. Will found a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet and took two.

\-----

Will woke the next morning to find the other side of the bed empty, the sheets already cool. He could smell coffee. 

_Dear God: Thank you for coffee._

His head hurt again. He staggered out of bed and down the stairs to find Hannibal in the kitchen, standing over the table with a mug of coffee in one hand and a photograph in the other. There was something endearing about seeing him barefooted in Will's kitchen, dressed in nothing but a pair of Will's sweatpants and holding one of Will's chipped mugs. Will went to him, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and stole a sip of his coffee.

"There's more in the pot," Hannibal said.

"Mmm." Will poured himself a cup. "I don't think you're supposed to be looking at that."

"Then we shan't tell Agent Crawford. Is this the one that you said was not the Ripper?" Hannibal lifted up one of the photos of Mr. Murray, gazing sightlessly out of a hotel room bathtub.

Will nodded and shook two aspirin into his palm.

"What makes this one different from the others? They appear very similar."

"Superficially." Will chased the pills with a swallow of coffee. "But they _feel_ very different."

Hannibal tilted his head. "Feel?"

"The others were...precise. Methodical. Meticulous. They told a story, they were witty, they were whimsical. They were theatrical and elegant. He left nothing unexplained, no detail unexplored." Will opened the refrigerator and retrieved the carton of eggs. "There's none of that in Alexander Murray. He looks more like an accident than anything else."

Hannibal put down the photo. "An accidental mutilation, complete with kidney theft?"

"Stranger things have happened. Anyway, it's not the Ripper, and I told Agent Crawford that last night." There had indeed been a business card in the envelope, with Crawford's direct line on one side and his cell phone number handwritten in ballpoint pen on the back. Will found a frying pan and put it on the stove. "How do you like your eggs?"

"However you like them." Hannibal leaned against the counter. "What's your sense of the Ripper, then?"

Will leaned against the counter and stared at the wood grain of one of his cabinets. "It's hard to get an accurate impression from just photographs, but he's...intelligent. And a psychopath. An intelligent psychopath, which are the hardest to catch." He gave a brief, bitter smile and took a bowl down from one of the cabinets. "Someone with medical training. Someone who loves the arts, but has very little respect for humanity. He would rather make people into art, turn them from something contemptible to something worthy of adoration. He's a narcissist who wants everyone to see and admire his work. He knows that what he does is loathsome, but he wants to be the center of attention anyway." He cracked four eggs into a bowl and added a dash of milk.

"You gleaned all this from photographs." Hannibal sounded impressed. "What would you glean from a crime scene?"

"Everything," Will said grimly. He stabbed a fork through the egg yolks and began to beat. "Those mirror neurons would start to mirror the Ripper."

Hannibal picked up the bottle of aspirin that Will had left on the counter. The few pills that were left rattled around inside in a forlorn manner. "This aspirin is expired."

"That must be why it's not doing shit," Will muttered as he beat the eggs. "Sorry," he added.

"Don't apologize. Does your head hurt?"

"A little." Will shrugged. "It happens, whenever I do...this thing that I do."

Hannibal nodded. He put the pill bottle down and reached out one long arm to reel Will in. Will huffed as he tried to keep the egg from sloshing out of the bowl, but he enjoyed the kiss that Hannibal pressed to his jaw, just under his ear.

"Good morning," Hannibal breathed.

"Good morning," Will replied, unable to stop the stupid grin that creased his face.

\-----

Later that day, Will opened the _Baltimore Sun_ to see, to his horror, an above-the-fold headline that screamed CHESAPEAKE RIPPER RETURNS! There was no photo, thankfully, but the victim was identified as 31-year-old Alexander Murray, and said that his body had been found in an area motel. The article itself was short, as the investigation was ongoing. The church listserv leapt into a frenzy, parishioners exchanging all-caps emails musing on the horror of the crime, reminiscing about the terror that had gripped the Baltimore area two years ago, pondering whether any of them might be next, and speculating on the nature of the Ripper.

He couldn't find Agent Crawford's business card, so he called Hannibal instead. "What does Crawford think he's doing?" he hissed.

"I believe he thinks he's luring the Ripper into the open," said Hannibal. "If he's a narcissist as you claim, he'll be furious that someone's inferior work is being claimed as his. He might be driven to make a mistake."

Will clutched his hair. "He might be driven to kill, you mean. Crawford's putting innocent lives in danger in the hopes that the Ripper will throw a public tantrum."

"I believe the saying is that you have to break a few eggs. I'm sorry, Will, but I have to get off the phone; I have a patient coming in fifteen minutes."

Will hung up and downed four aspirins at once. They were expired; that probably meant he had to take more of them.

He didn't see Hannibal for the rest of the week, but then, he hadn't really expected to. Will chopped some firewood, put up the Christmas lights, and worked on his sermon. On Sunday morning he rose before the sun and made the long drive to Baltimore to cense the sanctuary before the 8:30 am service, so that the smell would linger without being overpowering. He stopped on the threshold, one hand on the heavy bronze handle, and closed his eyes briefly to pray, as he usually did.

_I greet You on this holy Sabbath morning, O Lord and Creator of All. Guide us through this day, help us make the choices that need to be made, and thanks and glory be to You for the wonder that is this Creation. Amen._

He opened the door.

There was a body on the altar.

Will called the police, who called the FBI. He called the church administrator, the director of religious education, and each member of the Board of Trustees, and they set in motion the phone tree that would let the parishioners know that worship was cancelled today but that he would be giving the Eucharist in the parking lot across the street. Then he sat in the back of the sanctuary, feeling heavy and nauseated, as police officers and forensics technicians arrived and swarmed all around the sanctuary, snapping on gloves and flashing photos.

One of them, a young man with a scruffy beard not unlike Will's own, stopped and said, "Sorry about all this, Father."

Will shrugged. "God is Mystery."

Agent Crawford came striding in through the sanctuary doors. A silence fell over the assembly more complete than Will had ever experienced inside this church, for there was no rustling of worship guides, no stifled coughs, no suppressed sobs. Agent Crawford marched down the center aisle to the chancel, and the technicians made room, their heads turning as one to watch him. He stood in front of the tableau, head bowed, hands at his sides, for long enough that Will grew concerned. At last, Crawford spun on one foot and strode back to where Will was sitting in the last pew. He took a seat next to Will, hands on his thighs. His countenance was like stone.

"Is it the Ripper?" Crawford asked.

Will nodded. 

A bier of wood had been built upon the altar, and atop that the young man lay, his head thrown back and his legs bent at the knees, like a parody of a Pietà. He was pale and naked, his curly hair arranged in a golden halo around his face. His arms had been bound behind his back with white rags, more linen wound around his eyes, and a lambskin draped over his groin. Slippery pink and white entrails erupted from his exposed abdomen to cascade over the once-white wool, and the fat trimmed from around his organs sat in a neat pile on his chest. Half-dried blood trailed from a scarlet grin in his throat to sticky pools on the table and the floor beneath. Little yellow evidence markers littered the floor.

The table was probably a lost cause, which Will regretted; it was a very fine antique, and had been with the church since its founding in the 18th century.

Agent Crawford leaned in close. "What do you see?"

Will closed his eyes and did what he hadn't done in years: he let the pendulum drop.

The blood pulled off the floor and oozed up the table to flow into the young man's throat. Glistening viscera rolled back inside his belly. His wound sealed itself, and his skin flushed with life. His chest moved up and down. The white rags fell away and he opened his eyes. They were filled with fear.

_I cut open his belly first. I trim the fat from around his entrails and kidneys, as the Lord directed Moses. I offer the blood. I cut his throat and dip my finger, and I sprinkle it seven times before the Lord._

_He is a symbol of my devotion, but not to God, for I am God: I am cruel and whimsical and murderous._

He rose from the table and gathered the wood in his arms. The tablecloth rose from the pew and whipped itself over the altar. Decorations whirled into place atop it. 

_I am a considerate man. I removed the silver candlesticks and lined them up against the rail. I folded the white tablecloth._

Will's heartbeat and breathing were steady, but the young man beside him trembled. His breath clattered in his throat. When Will looked at him, his eyes were filled with begging tears. Will only smiled and winked.

_He thinks there is a ram in the thicket. But he is the lamb: unblemished; young, healthy. He pleases me; he pleases God._

_I did not burn the offering: that is for the priest to do._

_This is my design._

Will opened his eyes. His throat was hoarse. Agent Crawford sat watching him, his face impassive. Will rubbed his eyes. "He's a sacrifice, a sin offering for the Lord, except the Ripper doesn't believe in any God except himself. He's a narcissistic psychopath with a God complex, who believes that because he gets to decide who lives and who dies, that makes him God. The victim is probably missing his kidneys and his liver, which is in keeping not only with the Ripper's surgical trophies, but the Law in Leviticus: the kidneys and liver are offerings to God." Will paused and swallowed. "He has a complicated relationship with God, or the idea of God. He's not an atheist, but he doesn't practice anymore. He was probably raised religious as a child, probably Catholic. He's well-educated, well-read, with deep theological and art historical knowledge."

"Is this display influenced by art history?"

"Not any specific painting that I know of, but I'm not an expert," said Will. "But it's clearly supposed to evoke the Akedah."

Crawford raised his eyebrows. "The Akedah?"

Will sighed. "Abraham is instructed by God to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac," he recited. "He does as he's told, builds the altar for the sacrifice, binds his son, and raises the knife. But just as he's about to actually kill the boy, an angel stops him and points out a ram caught in a thicket instead, and Abraham is able to sacrifice the ram instead of his son. Hence: the sheepskin." He made a vague gesture toward the chancel.

"Hm." 

Crawford fell silent. Will closed his eyes and opened them again. Every time he closed them, he saw slick pink intestines, yellow-white fat, and blood on the altar.

"Anything else you can tell me?" Crawford asked.

Will pressed the tip of his tongue against his front teeth. At last, he said, "There's none of the noise in his head that resides in yours or mine: no anxiety, no doubts, no fear, no psychic vampires. He lives as he pleases and takes what he desires. He's powerful: he has money; he's a man of some status. Nobody can tell what he is." Will licked his lips. "He looks normal."

\-----

The sanctuary would be a crime scene for a few days at least. Plans would have to be made for Wednesday afternoon Eucharist. They'd have the sanctuary back by Christmas services, federal investigation be damned. But for now, Will had to figure out how to get the consecrated wafers and wine to the parking lot without dropping everything.

One of the uniforms held up the crime scene tape for Will to step under, straight into a gaggle of white-haired parishioners who either hadn't gotten the memo, or had and decided to come anyway.

"Father Will--?"

"Father--"

"--going on--"

"--the Ripper?--"

Will closed his eyes against the relentless curiosity and fear that now battered against him; it was as if now that he had let the pendulum drop, the walls could not be raised again. He cleared his throat. "Ursula will send out an email about what happened today in the sanctuary, once we know what we're allowed to say. Now please, let's go across the street and receive the Eucharist. It's still the Lord's day. Would someone like to help me carry the wine?"

He had decided against full choir dress, in all the commotion, and so he wore only his collar and his cassock. The parking lot was full--much more full than the sanctuary would have been, usually, as if the phone tree had reminded everyone of how long it'd been since they'd last come to church. Or maybe it was the lure of blood and guts and horror, of knowing about something before it was on the nightly news. A TV van had already arrived.

Hannibal waited for him after the service, as he had last week, but he did not approach until the rest of the congregation had left. "The church is taped off." He paused. "So Crawford's gambit worked, then?"

"It would seem so." Will leaned into Hannibal. The wool of his coat smelled comforting. Hannibal put his arm around Will, which was even better. "Do you have any aspirin?" Will mumbled.

"Not with me, I'm afraid. Does your head hurt?"

"Yeah." Will licked his lips. "Crawford asked me to look."

Hannibal's arm tightened around Will. "How was that for you?"

Will pressed his forehead against Hannibal's shoulder and thought about it. "I don't want to talk about it right now. When's your next patient? Can we get lunch? I'm starving."

"I had only one patient today, and I canceled when I saw the crime tape. Come to my home; I'll make you lunch."

It was tempting. Will was hungry, and Hannibal's food was good, and his home not far from here. But if he went with Hannibal he'd want to stay, and he wouldn't be able to. The dogs needed their afternoon walk, eventually.

"I understand if you need to go home to your dogs," Hannibal said, quietly.

Will shook his head. "They can wait a couple hours. Let's go."

\-----

They took Hannibal's car. Will was happy to tilt his head back against the headrest and close his eyes as Hannibal's Bentley slid through the streets. He was nearly asleep by the time they arrived at Hannibal's palatial home.

"Does your head still hurt?" Hannibal asked as he escorted Will through the door.

Will nodded, and they made a stop by a first aid kit in the front hallway. Hannibal tore open a little pouch of acetaminophen tablets that Will swallowed, dry, before he took Will by the elbow. Today, instead of settling Will in the cobalt-blue dining room with its aromatic forest, Hannibal took him past it to a gleaming stainless steel kitchen. It was very possibly the same size as Will's entire first floor, outfitted with the latest appliances and a state-of-the-art cooktop. Will recognized it immediately as a place of worship, one that inspired as much reverence and devotion in Hannibal as the church sanctuary did for Will.

"I trust that I no longer need to impress you, and that we need not stand on formality?" Hannibal asked with another one of those heavy-lidded smiles, subdued and yet affectionate.

"There never was in the first place," Will said, and Hannibal directed him to sit on a stool at the counter.

Hannibal poured Will a glass of sparkling water. "Then we'll eat here. Lunch will be ready in half an hour; will you survive, or do I need to provide you with an appetizer?"

"I'll live," Will said, dryly. He watched Hannibal retrieve a pan from a hook above his head and set it on the stove with a generous pour of olive oil. As it heated, Hannibal fetched from the refrigerator a vacuum-packed blob of something, drew a knife from the block, and tore open the plastic. Two dark, curved organs fell out onto the cutting board.

"Are those _kidneys?_ " Will exclaimed.

Hannibal did not look up as he cut the kidneys in half and began trimming out the white gristle within. "It cooks quickly, and you are already hungry. It's nutritious besides, high in protein and vitamins and minerals." He glanced up then, and his knife stopped. "Is something the matter?"

Will pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "The, ah, the victim today."

"Ah. They were missing their kidneys?"

"And his liver."

Hannibal glanced down at the red mess on his cutting board. He'd already started dicing it into bite-sized pieces. "Would you prefer something else?"

"Yeah, no, it's." Will swallowed. "It's fine."

Hannibal finished cutting up the kidneys and tipped them into the pan, where they sizzled and filled the air with a warm, meaty aroma. Will's mouth watered despite himself. Hannibal uncorked a bottle and tilted in a long pour, which gave off a sweet puff of alcohol.

"You're not doing well," Hannibal said.

"I'll be fine."

Hannibal stirred. "Crawford manipulated the Ripper, and now he's manipulating you. He was waiting for the first opportunity to use your skills and abilities to his gain."

"Crawford didn't make the Ripper kill someone in my church," Will said.

"Were you able to help?" Hannibal turned away from the pan to cut four thick slices from a loaf of bread and put them in the oven to toast. 

"I don't know. I don't think I told him anything that he didn't already know. That the Ripper is cunning, artistic, narcissistic. He's an intelligent psychopath." Will rubbed both hands over his face.

Hannibal added more splashes from bottles and spoonfuls from jars in a precise, methodical dance and stirred some more. It soothed Will to watch it: Hannibal knew where everything was in his kitchen, was always in control; he was something Will could dig into even as the rest of his life threatened to spin apart. The smell in the air changed into something tangier and sweeter. 

"Was it beautiful?" Hannibal asked. "The way you said the Ripper's other displays were beautiful."

Will left his hands tented over his mouth as he stared into the distance. He could see the shadows in the hollow of the boy's throat, the dark hair at his armpits, the round curve of his limbs. The tender care in the drape of the lambskin over his lap. "Yes."

"What did it look like?"

Will described his nudity, the fat trimmed away from the offal, the way he'd been staged like a Caravaggio and left on the altar like an offering to the muse of murder. He told Hannibal about his theories regarding sin offerings and the Sacrifice of Isaac. Hannibal listened without saying anything. He turned off the flame with a flick of his wrist and added cream to the pan. He got the toast from the oven and plated their food. He garnished the plates with handfuls of chopped parsley and washed his hands before delivering them to Will's side of the counter.

The kidney did not look like kidney anymore, cut into small pieces and swimming in a golden-brown sauce. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Will used his fork to move a piece of kidney to his toast and took a bite. The meat itself was sharp and gamy, almost overwhelming, but the sauce was sweet and tart. Will took a second bite with more enthusiasm. When he glanced to his right it was to see Hannibal watching him, knife and fork in hand, with an expression of reserved affection. Will's cheeks heated; he chewed and swallowed and took a sip of his water. "This is pretty good," he said. "What is it? Besides kidney?"

"Deviled kidney." Hannibal turned his attention back to his own plate. "A simple preparation, with a sauce of wine, mustard, vinegar, heavy cream, and a few other additions." He didn't eat with his hands, as Will did; rather, he cut pieces off of his toast and used his fork to spear meat and bread together. "What you described is very striking. What do you think the Ripper meant by it? Is it merely art, or was it in fact an offering?"

"It was art, and it was an offering--to himself." Will took another bite of kidney and toast, and then a swallow of water.

"So you think the Ripper sees himself as God?"

"He sees himself as above the rest of humanity. He decides who lives and who dies, who is worthy and unworthy, and he rebuilds them as images that please him. If he doesn't see himself as God per se, then he sees himself as the Antichrist, tearing down God's Creation and rebuilding it as a mocking parody."

"Fascinating," Hannibal murmured.

"I'd rather not talk about this anymore," Will admitted. It was making him lose his appetite.

"Forgive me; I let my curiosity get the better of me," said Hannibal. "I've been insensitive. Shall we talk about less fraught topics? Politics, perhaps? Religion?"

Will puffed out a laugh. "How about you tell me how you got so into cooking? What does food mean to you?"

"Food means a great many things to a great many people: sustenance, security, nurturing, love. When I was younger it meant those things, but as an adult it has gathered new facets for me. Now it is an act of great sensuality, as well as a creative one. In that way it is like the musical composition I told you about in one of our previous conversations, except that this art is edible, and it is more socially acceptable for me to host a dinner party where people can compliment my cooking than a private recital where people are expected to clap politely after I play my latest harpsichord composition."

Will grinned around a piece of toast. "Maybe they'd be more receptive if you provided refreshments along with the recital. Nothing gets people to show up more, and in a better mood, than a free dinner."

"No doubt," Hannibal said with a quirk of the lips. "You sound like a man of great experience with the matter."

"The original Christian services were probably along the lines of potlucks," said Will. "Agape feasts, love feasts. People brought food and wine, shared a meal, prayed together. The original table communion. Eventually they did away with that--it was too sensual, too vulgar--and introduced more ritual and more formality." He gave a little chuckle. "I wish we could bring back the love feast, actually. A few small sects and denominations have. I think that's the best way to build community, is for everyone to sit down and share a meal together and really get to know each other. But I guess that's what the church potluck is for, now."

"Interesting that the Christian faith seems to center so strongly around food," Hannibal mused. "Is not the Eucharist, at its very heart, about food? The body and blood of Christ; it's religiously sanctioned cannibalism."

"That," Will pointed his fork at Hannibal, tines down, "is a question some snotty teenager asks during Sunday school _every year_. Christ is both fully human and fully divine; Christ is not dead; Christ is not missing pieces. Christ re-enters the physical world at every Mass, all over the world; it's a miracle, not cannibalism."

Hannibal held up his hands. "I surrender to your expertise and apologize for my weak jest."

Will put down his fork; his plate was clean. "Are you going to poke at my religion like this all the time? Because if so, this really isn't going to work."

"I assure you, I respect your faith, all the more so because it is so alien to me." Hannibal laid his knife and fork next to each other on his empty plate, nudging them so that they were perfectly parallel to one another. "I'd like a great deal to learn more about it."

"We can have conversations," said Will, "as long as you can remain respectful."

"My dear Will, I would dream of nothing but." Hannibal drew his napkin from his lap and folded it into triangles before laying it on the counter. "Now, let me take you back to your car."


	4. Luke 22:22

Will felt worn carpet under his feet and cool air against his skin. He heard his own heartbeat, loud in his ears, and his own harsh breathing. Someone walked just three steps behind him, His footfalls were silent, and he didn't seem to need to breathe. But Will knew he was there.

Will opened his eyes.

He knew this place. He knew the ragged red carpet below his feet, those high rafters, the ancient wooden pews, the stained glass, the chancel with its altar and the cross hung above it. Will paused a moment, one foot in the air, and the presence behind him waited as well. He swallowed and continued walking. He was not afraid, even though his arms were bound behind his back and he was naked as the day he was born. God would provide the lamb.

They came to the chancel. From there he got up onto the table somehow, which was already laid with wood for the sacrifice. The cords were rough and prickly against his skin.

The stranger bound Will's eyes with cloth. He trembled as gentle hands arranged a lambskin across his lap. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he swallowed against a swell of sudden emotion.

The sound of a match being struck. The crackle of kindling. Will smelled smoke; he could see the light of the leaping flames even through the blindfold. He turned his face toward where he knew the cross was and closed his eyes.

He opened them to the lightening sky and the sound of faint barking, constant and concerned. Gooseflesh pimpled all up and down his arms and legs. He smelled trees, the faint odor of tar, and morning wet. Grit dug into his palms and the backs of his legs. The uneven tiles dug into his back through his t-shirt. Behind him, the barking grew more frantic.

He was on the roof of his house. He had climbed out the bedroom window.

\-----

Will almost dropped the phone twice, his hands were shaking so badly. His dogs circled him with anxious, upturned noses, pressing against his legs. Will stumbled downstairs, phone pressed to his ear, to open the door for them. Rather than dashing outside as they usually did, they remained close, so that Will had to step onto the front porch before they would venture to do their business. The morning air was cold against his bare legs and arms.

Hannibal picked up on the fourth ring. "Will?"

"H-hi." Will swallowed. "Will you come over?"

Hannibal's tone sharpened. "Is something wrong?"

"I just--I'll tell you about it when you're here. If you. Will you come?"

"I'll come now."

Hannibal hung up. Will pressed his phone against his forehead until he heard the plastic creak.

_Dear God: Thank You for this morning, Your beautiful Creation, the love and loyalty of dogs, and for not letting me walk off the roof of my house in my sleep. Now: what the hell? What was that all about? First gunmen in my church and bodies on my altar--oh, I'm sorry, Your altar--and now sleepwalking? As if the nightmares weren't bad enough? Where is Your holy presence, Lord?_

Will dropped his phone against the table and got on with his day. He poured kibble in the water dish and spooned coffee grounds straight into the basket without a filter. He showered; his hands shook too badly to attempt a shave. He skipped the eggs and settled for dry toast over the sink. The dogs took turns poking their heads into the kitchen to check on him. His head hurt, but he was out of aspirin.

He went out onto the porch to greet Hannibal's arrival. Hannibal paused at the bottom of the steps and tilted his head. He was wearing the dark blue fleece again today, his version of "dressed down" when he was around Will. Will appreciated the effort even as he wondered if Hannibal even owned jeans, much less a t-shirt.

"I brought lunch." Hannibal held up a leather bag.

"Great," Will said, though he wasn't hungry.

Hannibal followed Will in the door, but once inside he broke free and made himself at home at the kitchen table, which was slowly starting to accumulate detritus again. Will found them two plates, while Hannibal drew two sandwiches on French rolls from the bag, wrapped in wax paper that he sliced open with a knife.

"You sounded very distressed on the phone," Hannibal said as he arranged the sandwiches, complete with pickle spears, on Will's melamine plates. "What happened?"

Will lowered himself into his seat and watched as Hannibal produced a thermos from the bag and poured him a cup of what looked and smelled like coffee. "I sleepwalked last night."

Hannibal had a second, smaller glass bottle that contained what appeared to be milk, though it didn't pour the same way. "Sleepwalked?"

"Yeah. I woke up on the roof. The dogs woke me up, barking; otherwise who knows what would've happened." Will crushed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "It scared me."

"No wonder. You might have been injured." Hannibal sat down at the other end of the table. "I'm glad you're all right."

Will picked up his sandwich and took a bite. The crust crunched beneath his teeth. Shredded fragments of pickled carrot and some white vegetable lent texture and tartness to smoky, well-flavored meat. He hadn't been hungry, but chewing this good food, prepared for him with such care and attention, brought his appetite back. "Thank you for coming," Will mumbled, and took another bite.

"I'm glad that you called me," Hannibal said, quietly. "What happened? How did you get on the roof?"

"I must have climbed out through the window, because it was open; I usually leave a window open at night, for fresh air. When I woke up, I was lying on the roof, and the dogs were barking their heads off. I climbed back in through the window and called you." He paused and took a sip of his coffee, which was shockingly strong--and shockingly sweet. "Wow, what is this?"

"Vietnamese coffee, sweetened with condensed milk," Hannibal replied. "The sandwich is in the Vietnamese style as well, with grilled lemongrass pork, pickled carrot and daikon, and pork paté." It was strange and almost funny to see Hannibal eating with his hands, brushing crumbs off of his lips. But he looked as neat and put together as he always did, somehow. "Did you have a history of sleepwalking, as a child?"

"When I was very young, yeah; Dad found me in the kitchen a couple times, not doing anything, just standing there, sometimes in the bathroom. One time he found me in the yard. I think I was usually having a nightmare."

Hannibal took a sip of his coffee. "Were you having a nightmare this time?" 

Will nodded and relayed the dream: himself as the sacrifice, the Ripper behind him, the burning and the flames. "Then I woke up on the roof."

Hannibal tilted his head. He had finished his sandwich and now attended to his coffee. "It's post-traumatic stress. The experience may have overwhelmed ordinary functions that give you a sense of control."

"So if I feel out of control in my head," Will said, "then I can lose control of my body, too?"

Hannibal nodded.

Will gave it some thought. On the surface, it seemed like sound enough reasoning: he had felt overwhelmed yesterday, both by the shock of the morning's discovery and the subsequent aftermath. But he didn't feel out of control. Off, yes--who wouldn't feel off, after the past day?--but not in a way that suggested his body might go for a walk without him.

"Agent Crawford has thrust you back into this gruesome world you were glad to be quit of years ago," Hannibal went on. "And straight into the thick of it. No ordinary homicide, but the Chesapeake Ripper."

"What, first you want me to help Crawford, now you think it's too much for me?" Will returned, frowning. "I can handle it."

Hannibal's eyes smiled, crinkling at the corners. "I know that. You're a strong man, Will. But have you seen this?" He pulled a tablet out of his bag.

It took Will a moment to understand what he was seeing: a website with a lurid red design, shaky white lettering across the top announcing TATTLE-CRIME.COM. The latest headline bellowed, in block capitals, THE FIGHTING PRIEST VS. THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER.

Will's lunch threatened to make a return. "What's this?"

"An unfortunately well-followed tabloid," Hannibal said, dryly.

Will swiped down on the screen. The articles from the Associated Press and the Washington Post had praised him as "former New Orleans police detective" and "decorated detective from New Orleans." This Freddie Lounds, however, had gone much deeper than that: "'His ability to empathize with murderers made him an asset to the force, but too unstable for the FBI?'" Will quoted, voice growing higher and louder with each word. "That's complete bullshit! I wouldn't have been accepted to the ministry if I were _mentally unstable!_ 'But now the FBI hopes to harness that skill for themselves to catch the most infamous local murderer of them all: The Chesapeake Ripper. The question is: can they keep him on a tight enough leash?' What the hell? I'm not a dog!"

A few lines down was a quote from an unnamed parishioner who described Will as "a little creepy." Will almost threw the iPad down in disgust, but it was Hannibal's, so he just handed it back across the table with rather more force than necessary. "Who the hell reads this crap?"

"A great number of people, myself included," Hannibal admitted. "It's rather...compelling. While I recognize it for the tabloid fodder that it is, however, other people do not, and I'm afraid many of them are probably members of your congregation."

Will groaned and scrubbed his hands up and down his face. "You're telling me that I have to brace for fallout."

"I am."

The article was not that long, but Will had to stop reading it every thirty seconds in order to fume. In addition to dragging every bit of medical leave and mandatory therapy under the microscope as evidence of his supposed "mental instability," there were photos of the body, and how Lounds had obtained them, Will had no idea. They were not particularly artistic and looked as if they'd been taken with a smartphone, so probably they were crime scene evidence that had somehow been leaked; Crawford would not be happy about that.

Once finished flaying Will's history for all to see, Lounds went on to gush about the Ripper: his strength, his intelligence, his artistry, and his complete disregard for human life and law. Lounds recounted some of his "greatest hits," many of which Will recognized from the fat manila envelope that now gathered dust on his kitchen table: the Prometheus display; Mrs. Friedman's white roses; Robert Rivera with his foot in his mouth.

"'There's no doubt in this author's mind that the Ripper knows Father Graham and has deliberately targeted him with a display of Biblical proportions,'" Will read. "'What the Ripper's ultimate game is, we may only guess. But if there's anyone who can understand him well enough to catch him, it's Father Will Graham. But we know what they say about those who hunt monsters...'" He snorted and let the iPad fall back onto the table.

Hannibal, who'd been tidying up the remnants of their lunch, circled around behind Will's chair and dug his thumbs into Will's shoulders. Will heaved a great sigh and bowed his head. "Let's go for a walk," Hannibal suggested.

Three collars jingled at the word 'walk.'

\-----

"I'm nearly sorry I showed you that article," Hannibal said, as they strolled the tall grass behind Will's house. Will carried a hacksaw. "But I thought you would rather be prepared."

Will shook his head. "No, you're right. I'd hate to walk into Bible study tomorrow without having read that first. It just makes me so _angry_."

"Because it's not accurate?"

"It is accurate," Will admitted. "But that doesn't make it true. I _was_ mentally unstable, back then, I told you that. But I've worked hard to get where I am now, and I'm working hard to stay that way. Now it's all been undermined, and it's going to damage my relationship with the congregation. Ugh!" He picked up a stick and threw it. The dogs darted off, legs spinning, tails high.

Hannibal came close beside Will and pulled him in with an arm around his shoulders. He pressed his mouth to the side of Will's neck. "I know the truth of you."

"Thanks," Will mumbled, and he turned to capture Hannibal's mouth with his. "I think there's a tree over here that's about the right size."

Virginia pines were few and far between on Will's property, and most of them were towering behemoths, far from the tidy cone shape that occupied so many American living rooms at this time of year. Will had purchased his tree from a lot the year before, but not before noting one that he thought would be the right size by next year. Now he led Hannibal over the frostbitten grass toward a five-foot tree with slender green needles.

"There's a gap in it, here," Hannibal said with a critical frown.

"I'll turn it toward the wall," said Will. "It's fine, it's just for my house. You hold it, I'll saw. Keep the dogs away, I don't want any of them getting hurt."

Hannibal held the tree at the top, while Will sawed. The trunk was slender, and it was easy work.

"Normally I would've done this on the first day of Advent," Will said, "but, well, I've been distracted."

"Completely understandable."

The trunk snapped, but the tree remained upright in Hannibal's firm, gloved grip. Will sawed the large branches off the bottom. Jonah snapped one up and trotted around with it waving like a fan from the side of his jaw. Theo chased after him.

Will half-carried, half-dragged the tree back to the house. The dogs fussed and circled and were entirely in the way as they got the tree in the door, but they made it with a minimum of shed needles. Hannibal held the tree, again, while Will fished the Christmas tree stand out of the closet, and he provided an invaluable eye as Will winched the tree in and made sure it was straight.

"Will you decorate it now?" Hannibal asked.

Will shook his head. A light sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead. "Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. This is fine for now."

Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will's shoulders and touched his tongue to Will's pulse point. "Then may I?"

Will stuttered out a laugh. "I'm all sweaty."

"Mmm." Hannibal breathed in deep. "I admit, that is part of the appeal."

They made love in the late afternoon light, orange sun slanting in through the windows. Will lay on his back with his arms and legs wound around Hannibal's body, while Hannibal held Will by the shoulders and rocked into him slowly. The thrusts had to be shallow, their bodies were pressed so close together. Will kept his eyes closed and his face buried in Hannibal's neck. It felt good until it was unbearable, and he had to put his teeth in Hannibal's shoulder. "Shhh, shh," Hannibal said, petting Will's hair. He stopped thrusting but stayed buried inside Will. Will whimpered, and Hannibal pulled away just enough that he could get his hand between them and around Will's cock. Will came after three strokes, with a weak little cry that made Hannibal growl, and Hannibal resumed his thrusting after that. Will tried to curl away, overstimulated as he was, but Hannibal came quickly, with a huff of warm, humid breath across Will's chin and throat.

They showered together, Will so lax and weak that Hannibal almost had to hold him up under the spray. He deposited Will naked in his bed, with a kiss to his jaw and another to his forehead. Will gave him a sleepy smile and tried to pull him down, but Hannibal chuckled and drew away.

"I left you some dinner in the refrigerator," he said. "Please eat it."

"Okay," Will yawned.

He woke in darkness, his heart pounding. The clock on his bedside table read 8:13 pm. Some nameless terror clung to him like cobwebs, but the dream itself was fading. Will swung his legs out of bed. His dogs scurried around downstairs, nails clicking against the hardwood. He went downstairs and let them lick his face, gave them their dinners, and opened the refrigerator for his own. On the bare bottom shelf was a small glass container with a blue rubber lid, containing what looked to be some sort of meat stew. He smiled and stuck it in the microwave to heat. Next to the microwave Hannibal had left a brand-new bottle of aspirin.

That night, as he fell asleep for the second time, he thought: _Dear God: Thank you for giving me Hannibal._

\-----

Mr. Oshima and Mrs. Crowell cancelled their appointments on Tuesday morning. They didn't say it was because of the Tattle-Crime article, but Will listened to their voice mails with a heavy heart. It was just as well, because Will spent an hour on the phone with the bishop, reassuring him that the church was not falling apart, that Will was not sinking into a monstrous abyss, and that no, there was no need for the bishop to come down and give a sermon on communion and Roman persecution and weathering tough times. They were fine. It was all going to be fine. Will hung up and cradled his head in his hands.

_Dear God: Is this a test? I don't know why else You would try me like this. But what are You testing? My faith is like the oak, You know that better than anyone. What is it that You want from me? I know that God doesn't give us more than we can handle, but it would be nice if You would let me take it easy once in a while._

A knock sounded at the door. "Come in," Will called, struggling to sit up straight and look alert.

Ursula, the church administrator, poked in her head. "There's, er, a Ms. Riley here, asking if she can speak to the Father?"

Will glanced at the clock; he had an appointment with Mr. Rush in half an hour, but with his luck, Mr. Rush was going to cancel, too. "Of course; send her in."

Ms. Riley was a petite young Caucasian woman, with a head of brilliant, curly red hair. She had on bright red lipstick and leopard-print leggings, and she smiled shyly at Will as she took a seat in one of the armchairs by the window. Will sat in the other and gave her his most reassuring and pastoral smile. "What can I do for you, Ms. Riley?"

"I just...I've had a lot of questions about God, lately." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I've been thinking about going back to church."

Will nodded. "What are your questions?"

"I wonder if I could ask you some questions first?" she asked, a little breathless. "About yourself? If I'm going to start going to church here, I'd like to know a little more about you, Father."

Will raised his eyebrows. "This conversation isn't about me, Ms. Riley, but about you and your needs. What brings you to church? Has something changed in your life, recently?"

"Oh, well, I…"

Ms. Riley began a story about an estranged sister who was now ill and sought reconciliation. Will listened attentively, nodding and making the occasional noise of empathy, but something about this interaction seemed...not right. A woman in need of pastoral care, with an ill relative, didn't usually start an interaction with a priest by asking about the priest himself. Also, she had said nothing about the "Fighting Priest" business or the Chesapeake Ripper, when that had been the first thing to come out of the mouth of every new face at his parish. It was possible she was yet another tourist--she would not be the first to show up during Will's office hours--but Will's gut said something different. And Will had learned to trust his gut, during his years in NOPD.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Ms. Riley," he said. He took deep breath and gave voice to his instinct: "Is that even your real name?"

"Ms. Riley" halted, her tongue against the tip of her teeth. Finally, she said, "How did you know?"

Will leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What _is_ your real name?"

The woman arched one slender red eyebrow. "If you don't know, then there's no reason for me to tell you."

She began to rise from her seat, but Will stopped her with one outstretched hand. "Wait--are you _Freddie Lounds?_ "

Tattle-Crime did not boast a photo of its author, but the way she clutched her purse protectively under her arm now gave it away. Will grimaced at his own patriarchal assumptions and stood. He kept his arm outstretched. "Give me your purse."

"That's unlawful search and seizure," she hissed.

"I'm not a cop," said Will. "Give me your purse, or I can call them and you can explain why you were here under false pretenses."

She handed it over. Will fished out her iPhone; he recognized a big red RECORD button when he saw one. He hit STOP and handed the phone back to Lounds. "Delete the recording."

"I didn't get anything good," she sulked.

"Delete it anyway. Please."

She jabbed at the screen and showed Will a message: _Are you sure you want to delete this recording?_ Will watched her hit _Yes_.

"Now please leave," said Will. "And don't come back. If I see you here again, I will call the police."

She left. Will collapsed back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. _O my God: Why do You contend against me?_

\-----

The sanctuary reopened in time for Wednesday afternoon Eucharist, though the altar had indeed been carted away as evidence, with no promise of when it would be returned, if ever. Will went to IKEA and purchased the largest and most dignified-looking dinner table he could find. He put it together with the help of the facilities manager and an electric screwdriver just in time to fling a tablecloth over it as the first parishioner arrived. With the silver candlesticks and the white linen tablecloth hanging nearly to the floor, the difference was hardly noticeable.

After Eucharist, Will found a text on his phone from Hannibal: _Dinner?_

_Not tonight sorry Xmas planning._

_May I be of assistance?_

Will raised his eyebrows at the screen. _Can you write my sermons? Or plan liturgy?_

_I can provide dinner._

Will bit his lip against a smile. _Fine come over and bring dinner but I'm not gonna be good company._

_Understood._

\-----

Hannibal arrived at 7:30 pm in a brown plaid three-piece suit, with a gold shirt and a shockingly paisley tie. Somehow it did not look absurd on him, which continued to impress Will. He had an entire string of sausages in his brown leather bag, some of which he fed to the dogs (with Will's permission--Lord, but those dogs were going to be so spoiled) and the rest of which, he said, was for dinner. Will armed Hannibal with a cast-iron skillet and left him to his territory of flames and seasoning while he ensconced himself in his office. He still needed to recruit people to help set up the sanctuary for Christmas Eve services.

He was in the middle of scribbling down ideas for his Christmas Eve sermon when Hannibal tapped on his office door and poked in his head. "Dinner is ready, if you would care to join?"

Will stretched, his neck popping. His shoulders were stiff. He really needed to work on his posture. "Sure, I just need to finish writing down this idea first."

Hannibal departed. Will finished his sentence and wrote down a few other words, to jog his memory later, and took another couple aspirin before joining Hannibal in the kitchen. Hannibal had set the table with plates and cutlery, complete with a red-and-green potted poinsettia as a centerpiece.

"These are poisonous to dogs, you know," Will said as he took his seat.

"I'm sorry," Hannibal said. "I had no idea. Should I remove it?"

"Nah. I don't think any of them will try taking a bite out of it, especially if it's all the way up here." Will picked up his cutlery and admired his plate: egg in a basket with some kind of fancy fresh-baked bread, the aforementioned homemade sausage links, and sliced grapefruit. The dogs arranged themselves under the table, Ruth under Will's chair. "Breakfast for dinner?"

"I wanted something that would prepare quickly. Bon appétit."

Will attacked the egg first; the bread gave way with a satisfying crunch beneath his butter knife, and he ended up just picking it up with his hand and biting into it. The first bite flooded his mouth with rich olive oil, and he almost moaned around it. He glanced at Hannibal to see the other man's half-suppressed smile.

The sausage, fried to a delicate crisp exterior, was juicy and sweet. "Chicken-apple?" Will guessed.

"Pork, with a little bit of veal mixed in," said Hannibal. "And apple, yes. You have an excellent palate."

"Not that good, if I couldn't even tell it wasn't chicken." Even the grapefruit was exquisite. Will was reasonably certain Hannibal couldn't have done anything to the grapefruit.

"How is your work coming?" Hannibal queried.

"Well, I have to give three sermons next week: one for Christmas Eve, one for Christmas Day, and one for this coming Sunday, of course. I've kind of got one down, so just two more to go."

"That's a very demanding workload."

"It's not that bad," said Will. "A lot of people come to Christmas Eve and Day services who don't normally come to church otherwise, so I can't, um, go very deep with the message. I'll probably offer a pastoral message on Christmas Eve, about the arrival of light in the darkness, and the light that stays with us even in our darkest times, that stays with us even when we stray from the path. When we've forgotten there was ever a path in the first place."

Hannibal cut his bread into bite-sized pieces. "The light is Christ."

Will's lips twitched. "Yes, the light is Christ."

Hannibal sawed off a few more bites of his sausage. "In Lithuania, where I am from, Christmas Eve--Kūčios--is more important even than Christmas Day. That is when the entire family gathers, from near and from far, for a traditional dinner. The only reason one would fail to make an appearance would be due to serious illness or death. On that occasion, the family would set a place for that person anyway, with a candle, in memory of them."

Will stilled his knife and fork, as if the noise of cutlery against plastic might cause Hannibal to stop talking. 

"That first Christmas Eve," Hannibal went on, "in the orphanage, they did not observe Kūčios; it would have been impossible to set places for all who had been lost. I was very upset, and later that night I sneaked out and set a place for my sister in the forest, with a stolen candle."

"Your sister?"

"I missed her the most," Hannibal said.

Hannibal did not offer anything more, and after a moment Will took another, much more subdued bite of his sausage. "I'm sorry," he said. "Do you still miss her?"

"Every day," Hannibal replied. "Though it's lessened, as time goes on."

Will nodded. "But what you did for your sister was beautiful that night, in the forest. Sad, but beautiful, too."

"There's often sadness to be found in beauty, and vice versa. Typhoid and swans: it all comes from the same place, does it not? From God."

"That depends on your theology," said Will. "You believe in God, then?"

Hannibal cocked his head. "To disbelieve God is to believe in a fundamentally absurd and random universe. That troubles me. And yet, the alternative is to believe in a God who murders, without reason or mercy."

The issue was not as polar as that, and Will opened his mouth to say so, when Hannibal continued: "So I believe that God must enjoy killing, since He does it all the time."

Will dropped his fork. " _What?_ "

"A few months ago, a church roof collapsed on thirty-four worshipers in Texas, while they sang a hymn. Was that not the work of God?"

Will stared. "Setting aside whether or not that was actually direct intervention on God's part, you think God _enjoyed_ that?"

Hannibal sat back in his seat. He set his knife and fork parallel to each other on his clean plate. "Some years ago, a church collapsed in Florence, killing all the parishioners inside. Sixty-three Italian grandmothers, in the middle of a hymn. Why would God have done that, if He did not enjoy it? He's God; surely He can simply avoid doing things that don't excite Him."

It was a good thing Will had finished his food, because he had lost his appetite. "You know, the response that most people have to the question of why God allows bad things to happen to good people is to become atheist, not to believe that God is a homicidal lunatic who delights in causing suffering."

"We're made in God's image," said Hannibal. "Are we not?"

Will pushed his plate away from him. "Thank you for dinner."

Hannibal paused. "I've upset you."

"You just called God a psychopathic murderer in front of a priest," Will hissed. "Of course you've upset me. It might be best if you don't stay the night."

Hannibal nodded, once, as if to say, _I can't argue with that_ , and rose from his seat. Will got up as well, hitting Ruth with his chair, who snorted and trotted into the living room. He stacked their plates and cutlery and took them to the sink. He stayed there, running the water until it was hot. His shoulders stiffened as he felt Hannibal come up behind him.

"Before I go," Hannibal said, "tell me how you see God."

Will shut off the water. He looked not at Hannibal, but at the window. It was dark outside, and so the window showed only his rumpled, strained reflection, and behind that, dimmer still, Hannibal's face. "All things, good and bad, come from God," Will said into the kitchen's muffled silence. "You're right about that. But that isn't what God represents. I believe that God is the best of us, what we're supposed to aspire to." Will looked at his hands, half-buried in suds. Once, there had been grease buried in his nail beds from working on boat motors; gunpowder residue from firing his gun; now they were soft hands, pastor's hands, that smelled faintly of paper and sometimes of hand sanitizer from hospital visits, and right now of lavender-scented dish soap. "These hands are God's hands, and though I may be sinful and weak, I'm called to be better than my base impulses. I reach up toward God and away from my selfishness and cowardice. I believe that God calls all of us to live in God's righteousness, and that there is a divine spark in each of us that calls us to God."

Hannibal took a deep breath behind him. "Even the Ripper?"

"Even the Ripper." Will picked up a plate and began scrubbing. "Good night, Hannibal."


	5. Proverbs 7:21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest thanks to tiltedsyllogism, who basically wrote the entire conversation about Feuerbach for me.

A shrill electronic squeal jerked Will out of his sleep, and he knocked his phone to the floor, where it bounced under the bed and kept jangling. He hung over the edge of the bed, fished the phone out, now covered with lint and dust, and just managed to pick up the call. "Ullo?"

"Mr--Father Graham," said Agent Crawford. "There's been another Ripper murder."

"What--how did you get this number? No, never mind." Will scrubbed a hand over his face. "God, what time is it?" He squinted at the clock. "Jesus, it's six in the morning."

"The body's in Baltimore, Leakin Park. I'm headed there now. Will you come look at it? I've instructed my people to wait for you."

Will passed a hand over his face. His room was still dark; the sun wasn't even up. "I have meetings with my parishioners this morning."

"Cancel them."

"I'm not going to cancel them," Will said through his teeth.

"This is a matter of life and death, Father. It's a matter of murder. We need you."

Will collapsed back atop his pillow, eyes closed. His first appointment was at, what, nine am? The church wasn't more than a twenty minute drive from Leakin Park. If he left now and made it a very, very quick look, he would probably still make it on time. "Fine, I'll come."

"Good man."

Agent Crawford hung up. 

_Dear God: What the fuck?_ Will held that thought in his mind for a few moments before getting out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom.

After he fed and let out the dogs, Will popped four aspirin and got in the car with a travel mug of coffee. He put Leakin Park into the GPS and drove ten miles over the speed limit the entire way there.

\-----

The victim had been discovered at the Benjamin Cardin Pavilion, which was a fancy name for two rows of blue-painted picnic tables underneath a roof. Currently it was surrounded by yellow crime scene tape and blue-jacketed forensics personnel, sipping coffee and standing around with blue nitrile gloves hanging out of their pockets. Agent Crawford detached himself from the gaggle to greet Will.

"Couple of early morning lovebirds found it and called it in," he said. "Police haven't touched it, neither have we. You're getting it fresh."

"Fresh?" Will mumbled. "Fresh as a daisy?"

"Fresh enough," Crawford said grimly. "We haven't found the rest of the body yet," he added.

"The rest of--" Will came to a stop as the pavilion came properly into view.

One of the picnic tables had been laid out with a white tablecloth and set for two, with fine china, crystal wine glasses, and what Will had no doubt was real silverware. Pine boughs, strands of holly berries, and fragrant pine cones lent the table a festive air. On a silver platter in the center of the table was a man's head, with a long beard and a wide-open mouth; his half-lidded eyes, sunken into his face, gazed blankly up at the underside of the pavilion's roof. His skin was blue. A dozen large yellow-green grasshoppers lay curled on their backs around the edge of the platter, and a beautiful golden honeycomb dripped from the man's open mouth, smearing down his beard.

Will swallowed.

"What do you see?" Crawford asked.

"John the Baptist," Will whispered.

"What?"

"John wore clothing of camel's hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey," Will said. "Matthew 3:4."

One of the forensics team looked up, not the bearded one who had apologized to Will in the sanctuary a few days ago, but an older guy, clean-shaven. "Those are locusts," he said. "And that is definitely honey."

"John the Baptist was imprisoned and later executed by Herod," Will explained. "He had spoken out against Herod's relationship with his brother's wife, Herodias. Herodias was furious, but Herod was afraid to harm John the Baptist because he had so many followers. So Herodias sent her daughter Salome to dance for him, and he was so bewitched by her charms that he promised her anything she wanted, even half his kingdom. The girl went to her mother and asked what she should ask for, and she replied, 'ask for the head of John the Baptist.' And so Herod delivered her the head on a silver platter."

They fell silent and stared at the display. A great revulsion boiled up from Will's gut and lodged in his esophagus. The coffee and aspirin burned in his stomach. He shut his eyes, and almost against his will, the pendulum came down.

Time unwound. The sun set and illuminated the stars. Shadows descended on the pavilion. The Chesapeake Ripper strode backward toward the table. Will could not make out his face, but he saw someone powerful, confident, arrogant. The Ripper plucked the honeycomb from the man's mouth with gloved hands and stroked his beard with a tender thumb.

_I have set a place for you, and for me._

He picked up the silverware, the china, the wine glasses. He pulled away the tablecloth and folded it, like he had the tablecloth in Will's church.

_This is my gift to you, a sign of my devotion. I am a powerful man, but I am easily swayed by lust, or by love. Ask me for anything, even half my kingdom._

All the while, Will thought he heard him humming, snatches of some old hymn.

_Do you remember what happened after this? After Jesus of Nazareth heard of the death of John the Baptist, he went away, onto a boat on the water, and he stayed there until the crowds forced him back to shore. That was when he fed the five thousand. You know the story, Father; I know you do. Though he wanted to leave, he could not. He had to answer the call. The people needed what only he could provide._

"What else?" Crawford asked, just as Will turned and retched. Nothing came up except acid, which burned his throat. He braced himself against one of the poles and panted. "Father?" Crawford said, and for once he sounded concerned.

"It's for me," Will gasped. His breath was coming too fast; he tried to take deep breaths through his nose, but his chest clamored for air. He squeezed his eyes shut. "He knows I'm here. He knows I'm looking at them. That's why they're Biblical, that's why. They're for me."

Crawford's thunderous silence told Will all he needed to know. He remained leaning against the poles as one of the forensics techs, a woman, came up to him and handed him a waterbottle and a Luna bar. Will took them with nerveless fingers but wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with them after that. "Thanks."

"Why would the Ripper be trying to send you a message?" Crawford asked.

Will gave a rattling laugh. "Who knows? Maybe he feels threatened by me. Don't you read Tattle-Crime?"

Crawford's already stormy countenance darkened further. "What do you know, Father?"

"I don't know anything!" Will threw his arms in the air. "You wanted me to come and look, and I did. And I'm telling you: he knows I'm here. He knows I'm looking. These are for me. I don't know any more than that. I just interpret the evidence; I'm not psychic." He glanced down at his watch. "I need to go. I have an appointment at nine."

"Fine." Crawford turned away, striding toward the scene. The woman followed with an apologetic glance over her shoulder. "Think it over, Father!" Crawford boomed. "Give me a call if you think of anything else."

\-----

Will went to church.

He greeted Ursula, asked her about her husband and her children and her grandchildren. Ursula smiled widely and told Will all about how her oldest granddaughter had just gotten straight A's, and how her husband's cholesterol was under control, and she was just so grateful and felt blessed by the Lord for everything. Will smiled and nodded and made the appropriate noises and felt the tension in his chest and shoulders ease. After Ursula finished telling him about her youngest grandson's new bicycle, she said, "You haven't had any calls this morning, Father."

"Thank you very much, Ursula," said Will. "I'll just be in my office, then."

He had fifteen minutes until Mrs. O'Dell arrived. Will put in his collar and sat down at his desk. He drew toward him a Gideon Bible with well-thumbed pages and a scuffed and dented cover. It was the New King James Version, Will's second least favorite translation, but this Bible had a soft spot in his heart: it was the one the chaplain had given him in the hospital.

He opened it at random.

"'Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say?'" Will read aloud. "'Father, save me from this hour'? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name!' Then a voice came from heaven, 'I have glorified it, and will glorify it again.'"

Will closed the Bible and sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes.

_Dear God: Do things happen for a reason? Is there a reason the Chesapeake Ripper left a sacrifice on my altar and left me a head? Did he leave me these things, or did he leave them for You? What is he thinking? What do I have to do with any of this? How did I even get involved? Lord, I know that it's too much to ask You to reveal to me Your inner workings. But if You could give me a sign that this is all part of Your plan, that would be great._

He opened his eyes.

The office was the same as before. Will opened a drawer, where he had taken to stashing a bottle of aspirin, and swallowed two of them.

Five minutes later, Mrs. O'Dell knocked, a few minutes early for her appointment.

After Mrs. O'Dell was Mr. Gallogly, and after Mr. Gallogly was Miss Ames. Will listened to their problems, counseled them, and prayed with them and for them. At noon, Ursula brought him a chicken salad sandwich ("You looked like a man who forgot his lunch," she said, and bless her, for she was entirely correct). Will ate it at one of the chairs by the window, gazing past his purple orchid at Hannibal's office. He couldn't see anything through the tall, narrow windows except for a glimpse of gauzy red-and-white curtains.

He picked up his phone. _I think I owe you an apology_ , he texted. _Call me?_

The phone rang fifteen minutes later.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing," Hannibal said. "I was rude and offensive, and I should have known better. My chagrin is immeasurable."

Will rubbed his hand across his nose. "Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly pastoral about it. I shouldn't have kicked you out like that, especially not after you came all that way. I'm sorry. How about I make it up to you with dinner, at my place? Tonight or tomorrow night."

"Tonight would be fine, but my last patient is at 6:30. Would nine o'clock be too late for our dinner?"

"Not if you spend the night." 

The pause was just long enough to terrify Will. But Hannibal only purred, "Always my pleasure," and Will could _feel_ the lick of heat even through the phone.

He swallowed. "Great," he said. "Dinner at nine, then."

"Dinner at nine," Hannibal agreed, and hung up. Will spent the next ten minutes in his office calming himself down so as not to embarrass himself at the staff meeting.

\-----

Snow clung to the steps and the sidewalk in a grim, pale dust, not quite deep enough to leave footsteps as Will trudged from the church to the parking lot. The vestry was getting cluttered again; they needed to find a volunteer to sort it out. Miss Macy was moving to California, leaving the altar guild one short. Mr. Poulter was in the hospital, and Will would need to visit him at some point. Meanwhile, attendance at the early Eucharistic service was dropping off in favor of the more "High Church" liturgy of the second service. They either needed to make changes to the early service or discard it entirely. Also, Will badly wanted a nap.

Freddie Lounds leaned against the side of Will's battered old Volvo, her hands in the pockets of her bottle-green jacket. "Merry Christmas," she said.

"Why does everyone know my schedule?" Will wondered aloud.

"Your church administrator is very helpful." Lounds straightened and brushed invisible dust off of her coat. "I never formally introduced myself." She stuck out her hand. "Freddie Lounds."

Will shook her hand only as long as it took to be polite. "Will Graham, as you know. You can call me Father Graham. How can I help you?"

"I wanted to apologize for my ambush earlier this week. It was sloppy and misguided. And hurtful."

"You told all your readers that I'm unstable, creepy, and a psychopath," said Will. "You've damaged my relationship with my congregation."

Lounds took a deep breath. "I can undo that."

"In exchange for what--an exclusive interview? Crime scene photos? You tell your readers that I'm actually a swell guy, that I was a good cop and now I'm a fine priest, and in return I help you with online ad sales?"

Lounds didn't even so much as flinch. "I can undo what I did, but I can also make it a lot worse."

Will sighed. "Please get off of church property, Ms. Lounds. If you write another word about me I will sue you for libel. And you would do well to remember," he leaned in a little, mustering the full weight of his ministerial authority and every inch of height he had on her, "it's not very smart to mess with someone who has God on his side."

\-----

Will opened the door to the scent of pine. He smiled and took a deep breath. The dogs came trotting up, tails wagging, sticking their inquisitive noses into Will's shopping bag. "None of that's for you," he half-scolded them.

He put the cedar plank in salt water to soak while he filleted the salmon, humming snatches from "Joy to the World" and "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" all the while. The dogs whined and bumped against his legs. Will rubbed the fish with salt and brown sugar and spices and set it aside in the fridge wrapped in tin foil. The dogs stared.

"Git," he told them, affectionately, but held out his hands for them to lick. They lapped his palms and the spaces between his fingers, and when there was nothing left, Will laughed and opened the back door for them. Theo bolted out into the deepening gloom, while Jonah and Ruth just bounded out onto the back porch.

Will poured their kibble, listening all the while for Theo, knowing that the dog could hear the rattle of meaty bits clattering against their metal dishes. "Theo!" he called. "Dinner!"

Somewhere in the near distance, he heard Theo bark.

Will straightened and put more force into his yell. "Theo! Come!"

Some susurration arched the hairs on the back of Will's neck. He looked behind him but saw no one except Ruth and Jonah, butts planted on the wooden planks, tails wagging. Will peered out into the darkness but didn't see Theo.

"The god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers," someone whispered.

Will's heart leapt into double time. He spun in place, spilling dog food across the boards. Ruth and Jonah leapt to their feet and started scarfing.

"He keeps them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ," the house creaked and the wind moaned, or maybe it was all inside of Will's head. "You know the glory; do not be deceived."

Theo yelped, somewhere out in the grass. Will took a step off the porch. Ruth and Jonah had their noses buried in their dog dishes, unconcerned. "Theo!"

Theo came bounding out of the darkness, knocking into Will's knees so hard that he almost fell over. He had something in his jaws; it looked like a paw. Will knocked it out of his mouth.

"Leave it!" Will snapped. Theo cocked his head and whined. "You know better. Now come get your dinner." He nudged Theo's bowl toward him. Theo put his head down and began crunching. Will kicked the paw back into the long grass. He listened hard, but he didn't hear the voice again.

\-----

"Cedar planked salmon, steamed broccoli, white rice," Will announced as he put down the plates. "Sorry, it's nothing fancy."

Hannibal inhaled deeply. "It smells divine."

Will found that he liked seeing Hannibal in his house like this, after hours, straight from work. Though Hannibal was always in one of his three-piece suits, all the lines of him were softened from a long day, hairs out of place and five o'clock shadow on his jaw. Even better, Will liked to think of himself disarranging the good doctor even more: loosening his necktie, creasing his shirt, and rubbing that godawful pomade out of Hannibal's hair.

They ate in silence for a few moments, cutlery clinking against plates, before Will began: "So like I said earlier, I owe you an apology. And I'm sorry for my behavior last night."

"And as I said earlier, you owe me nothing of the sort: I offended you, and there was no excuse for that."

"I'll accept your apology, if you'll accept mine," Will said with a small smile.

"That seems agreeable."

They ate in another, slightly warmer silence.

"Your theology is still awful, though," said Will. "You'd really rather believe in a God who kills Italian grandmothers for fun?"

Hannibal chewed a mouthful of rice contemplatively. "Such a God possesses a sense of whimsy," he said. "I can identify with that."

Will shook his head.

"Are you familiar with the writings of Ludwig Feuerbach?" Hannibal asked. 

"Long time ago," said Will. "We read a lot of theologians in seminary, and they all run together after a while. Refresh my memory."

Hannibal cut a broccoli floret into bite-sized pieces. "Feuerbach wrote of how in every aspect, God corresponds to some need or feature of human nature. We project ourselves onto God."

"Ah, right. 'If man is to find contentment in God, he must find himself in God,'" Will quoted.

"Yes. An insight into the human condition."

"Well, he thought religion was anthropology," Will responded. "But there's more to it than that; God is more than our ideas about God."

"How can we be certain? Whatever the reality of God may be, religion itself is a human phenomenon; we invent our ideas about the divine," said Hannibal. "We pick and choose certain qualities--benevolence, wisdom, justice--and call those 'divine,' and then we assign them to God, disregarding whatever the facts may be about God's nature."

Will gestured with his fork. "God doesn't need us to call God good. God _is_ good. We project ourselves onto God because God is something more moral than we are, and we strive toward that and away from our own imperfection."

"How can you know that God is real, if God is so perpetually beyond our reach?"

"Things don't have to be tangible to be real, or to have influence over us. We construct things that have influence over us all the time," said Will. "Gender. Family. Government. I'm carrying a bunch of constructions in my wallet, pieces of cotton and linen that we call 'currency' and that exercise at _least_ as much influence over my life as God."

Hannibal's lips twitched. "That sounds an awful lot like heresy."

"Yeah, well, don't tell the bishop."

"Can you really speak of God as a construction and yet believe in transubstantiation?" Hannibal queried with a cock of his head.

"Consubstantiation," Will corrected him automatically. He popped his last bite of fish in his mouth and chewed. "And don't tell the bishop."

After dinner, Hannibal washed the dishes, and Will dried and put them away. Will stacked the last dish, draped the towel over his shoulder, and put his arms around Hannibal's waist and his chin on Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Will traced the prominent vein of his forearm with one finger.

"I noticed that you haven't decorated your tree," said Hannibal.

Will looked over his shoulder, toward the living room where his tree still bristled, green and unadorned, in a corner of the living room. "Just haven't found the time, I've been so busy with Christmas service. Do you want to help?"

"I can do it myself, if you'd like to work."

Will had no doubt that Hannibal would do a precise and elegant job on WIll's tree, even if all he had to work with were nylon baubles and silver plastic tinsel. "No, no, let's do it together."

Hannibal's Christmas setup was no doubt classy in an old-world sense: real pine garlands, holly wreaths, and antler candelabras, but if he disdained Will's Wal-Mart lights and scuffed fake red-berry garland, he didn't treat them with any less care. They untangled the two strings of lights and looped them around the tree, followed by the tinsel, followed by the garland. At the bottom of the bin were Will's Christmas ornaments: red and green and bronze and gold "unbreakable" baubles, stored in their Wal-Mart boxes, but also ones wrapped in newspaper and nestled in boxes of tissue.

Hannibal unwrapped one of them, revealing a spun-glass songbird. "Oh."

"I don't hang the really fragile ones," Will confessed. "I'm too afraid of the dogs knocking into the tree and breaking something."

"It seems a shame," Hannibal murmured, holding it up to the light to wink and sparkle. "Precious things are to be admired. People want their gifts to be seen and used."

Will sighed and took the bird from Hannibal. "I suppose you're right. But if it breaks and Mrs. Sakai asks about it, it's on you."

Hannibal's eyes crinkled. "You wouldn't just lie?"

Will gave him a look. Hannibal chuckled and picked a glitter-festooned pine cone from the box. They worked without speaking for a few moments, Will humming bits and pieces of "Angels We Have Heard on High" and "The First Noel" as he pushed nylon thread over prickly branches. Hannibal moved two red ornaments that Will had just hung. Will turned away to hide his smile.

"How do you usually celebrate Christmas?" Will asked.

Hannibal stepped back from the tree and scrutinized it with narrowed eyes. He hung a silver bauble precisely between two red ones. "I typically host a holiday party, the first or second Saturday of the month. Close enough to Christmas that people are in the mood for mulled cider and roast goose, but not so close that people have begun their travels. There is live music, and I prepare a gift bag for each guest."

Will recalled it: the ten foot tree; the wreath and the garlands. He pictured, among them, white-gloved waitstaff bearing trays of canapés and flutes of champagne, a string quartet, and Hannibal Lecter, laughing and handing his guests gift bags of wine and chocolates. "That was the weekend after we first met."

"Very well deduced. I gave serious consideration to inviting you, but I didn't want to frighten you off." Hannibal flashed Will a smile, one that showed his crooked canine. Will ducked his head. Hannibal moved a felt robin and placed a ceramic German Shepherd, whose tongue lolled out in a doggy grin. "How do you usually spend your Christmas, besides at church?"

"Well, Mass takes up a pretty big piece of the day," said Will. "I sometimes get an invitation to brunch at someone's house, but I usually decline. I'm tired after a week of services and I just want to go home and be with my dogs." 

Will lifted the last thing out of the box: a beautiful multi-pointed Star of Bethlehem, constructed from translucent panes of capiz and lit from inside by golden bulbs. This, too, had been a gift from a parishioner. He lifted it to the top of the tree, adjusted the coils to make sure it was straight, and passed the cord to Hannibal to plug in. Hannibal did so, and Will stepped back and turned off the lights. Red, green, white, and gold lights twinkled from the tree's dark boughs and reflected off the tinsel and the glittering ornaments.

"Okay, I'm glad you convinced me to put the nice ones on," Will said.

"I am correct about some things." Hannibal pulled Will close and nuzzled into his neck.

That night, Will lapped and sucked on Hannibal's hole until the man was limp and gasping into the sheets. He stopped only when his jaw hurt. Hannibal was fairly useless by then, his limbs watery and sluggish. Will turned Hannibal onto his back and rode him, while Hannibal grasped Will's hips with sweaty palms and gazed up at him adoringly. Will came first, all over Hannibal's chest and belly. Hannibal whined in the back of his throat.

"I've got you," Will gasped. He slid off Hannibal's cock, stripped off the condom, and gave Hannibal fast, brutal strokes. "I've got you. Shh, shh." Hannibal went completely still when he came, eyes open but unseeing.

They curled up into each other afterward, legs tangled with legs and arms on each other's shoulders.

"How do you spend Christmas itself?" Will mumbled. "You said you host this holiday party a few weeks before."

"Usually I travel. The week between Christmas and the New Year is very peaceful. I can go wherever I like and be alone."

Will stroked clumsy fingers through Hannibal's hair. "That sounds lonely."

"You decline offers of camaraderie from your parishioners to go home to your dogs."

"Mmm." Will nuzzled into Hannibal's neck. "Point taken."

\-----

Will opened his eyes in Leakin Park.

He could see his own face as he saw it in the mirror in the mornings: his own unkempt curly hair, his neat beard, his slightly asymmetrical eyes. But his corneas were clouded over, his lips blue with death. His head sat on a silver platter on one of the picnic tables, surrounded by locusts, honey dripping from his tongue.

Something shifted, time and space melting and warping as it does in dreams. Hannibal was seated at one of the places at the table, a knife and fork in his hands. He set down his utensils and picked Will up. He kissed Will's honey-sweet mouth. Will observed it as from afar, and yet he could also feel it: Hannibal's lips were warm, almost hot, against his bloodless ones. 

"You wouldn't suffer me to kiss you," Hannibal said against his skin. "Well, I'll kiss you now." And he did, his warm, wet tongue against Will's cold, stiff one. He drew away. Tears brimmed in his eyes. "Why won't you look at me? Are you afraid?"

He cradled Will so sweetly, so gently, and his kisses were so tender and ardent, that something in Will's nonexistent chest caved and gave way. He wanted to weep, but all he could do was allow Hannibal to kiss him, over and over again, nipping now and then at his unmoving lips.

"There's a bitter taste on your lips," Hannibal murmured. "Is it blood? Or is it love? They say that love has a bitter taste. Love tastes like blood to me, o sweet William…"

Will woke with tears in his eyes. He blinked them away. His head hurt again, or as usual; Will slipped from the bed, where Hannibal was a still, warm lump beneath the sheets, and padded into the bathroom. He swallowed two aspirin and went downstairs. The dogs leapt to their feet immediately, claws clicking against the hardwood floor.

"The whole world lies under the power of the evil one."

Will froze. He blinked and stared. The dogs looked up at him expectantly. Ruth tried wagging her tail. 

Jonah cocked his head and whined.

"The Son of God came and gave us understanding, so that we may know him who is true."

Will stumbled backward until he hit the wall. The dogs cocked their heads at him. Theo yawned, mouth opening wide to show a pink gullet and many sharp teeth. Will sank to the floor, back against the wall by the stairs and knees tucked up against his chest, and began to weep. Ruth paced back and forth, her claws clicking a rapid tattoo against the floor.

Hannibal found him like that Will didn't know how long later; he jolted at the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder, palpable through the thin cotton. Will glanced to the side and up, glimpsed Hannibal's concerned face, and gave a little groan. He scrubbed one hand down across his teary, snotty face. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually this fucked up--"

"What happened?" Hannibal took a seat on the bottom step, at the perfect height for Will to rest his forehead against Hannibal's knee. He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and one of Will's t-shirts, which was too small for him. Hannibal wove the fingers of one hand through Will's hair and began to massage his scalp; it felt amazing, although Will was aware that his hair had to be greasy as hell.

"I think I'm going out of my mind." Will pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He couldn't remember what it felt like to not have a headache, now compounded by his sobbing fit. He gave a clogged sniff. "The dogs are talking to me."

"Talking to you?"

"Quoting Scripture. Just now it was First Epistle of John."

Hannibal's hand stilled. "Oh my."

Will bit his lip. "There was another Ripper killing. Crawford had me out to look at it."

"What?" Will took a chance and looked up; Hannibal looked only deeply concerned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to talk about it," Will mumbled.

Hannibal's hand drifted down from Will's scalp to squeeze his shoulder. "I'll get you a drink of water."

Will missed Hannibal's body heat immediately, but Theo came up to him and licked his face and that made him feel a little better. Hannibal returned, trailing Ruth and Jonah in his wake, with a glass of water and two aspirin. Will gulped them down, even though he'd just taken two, along with the glass of water. He did feel a little better, afterward. He pressed the cool glass against his forehead and sighed. "I feel like I'm going crazy."

Hannibal sat back down on the step and stroked Will's hair. "What did you see that's infected your mind?"

Will swallowed. He kept his eyes closed so that he wouldn't have to look at Hannibal's face. "He left a head for me in Leakin Park. The head of John the Baptist, on a silver platter, with locusts and honey." When Hannibal said nothing, Will went on, babbling almost, "It was definitely for me, but I don't know why, or how."

"You think this is personal?"

"It is now." Will opened his eyes. He drained his glass and kept his eyes on the rim. Hannibal's hand was a heavy, reassuring weight against the back of his neck. "He knows I'm involved, that I'm looking. He knows my past, that I can see him. These murders, the way they're displayed, they're messages, but I don't know what he's trying to say."

Hannibal made a soft, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "The Sacrifice of Isaac and John the Baptist...what do they have in common?"

Will shook his head. "One's a Hebrew Bible story about a test of faith, and the other's a New Testament story about lust and violence. They both feature offerings, I suppose. Sacrifices, in a way."

"Offerings of devotion," Hannibal said.

"Love, and lust." Will rubbed his forehead. "But why would the Ripper offer devotion to me? He doesn't even _know_ me."

"Perhaps he does, or thinks he does," Hannibal suggested. "Any strange correspondence? New members of your flock?"

"God, I got so many weird letters and emails over the 'Fighting Priest' stuff," Will snorted. "People offering to marry me, or have sex with me, or wanting to convert me. And we got an influx of visitors, too. Not a lot of them have stuck around." Will rolled the glass between his palms. "You don't think one of them's the Ripper?"

"I'm not engaging in any conjecture," said Hannibal. "Merely offering suggestions."

Will thought of the new hands that he'd shook, new faces he'd encountered, during the Passing of the Peace. Had any of those smiles been a little too fixed? Had any of them looked furtive or guilty? Had he wished God's peace upon a murderer? That was the frightening thing about serial killers, wasn't it, especially intelligent, self-aware ones like the Ripper: people liked to think that they would _know_ , but they never did. So many stories, in the paper and on the news, of people shaking their heads and saying, "I never thought," or "You would never have suspected."

"Feeling better?" Hannibal asked.

Will nodded. He gave Hannibal a forced, wan smile, which became more genuine when Hannibal leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of Will's mouth. "I'm a complete mess."

"You're very charming, just as you are," said Hannibal. "Come back to bed."

"Okay. But wait, let me let the dogs out. They're all confused because I'm down here."

Hannibal went back upstairs, and Will stood out on the porch alone as his dogs weaved back and forth through the grass. They were sleepy and not inclined to go far, which was good; there were dangerous things out there, in the dark, in the night. Will kept his arms wrapped tightly around himself and shivered. He listened hard, straining so much that he was afraid he'd bring back his headache, but his dogs did not speak to him again.


	6. 1 John 4:7

Will rolled over to slap his alarm off and hit empty pillow instead. He spent a moment blinking at the dented pillowcase, disoriented and fuzzy, before recovering enough of his senses to crawl over to the other side of the bed and shut the alarm off properly. The sheets reeked of sweat and sex and nightmares. He spent another few moments lying there on his stomach before he smelled coffee.

_Dear God: Thank You for yet another blessed morning, and thank You for coffee. Thank You for light, and love, and dogs, and all good things in this world. Now, if You could do something about these headaches? Also, I'm afraid I might be running a fever, and if You could stave off any impending illness until after Christmas, that is the only miracle I will ask for, Lord._

Will rolled out of bed. He swallowed two aspirin in the bathroom before descending the stairs.

Hannibal had the back door open, though for the most part the dogs stuck to the kitchen, sniffing the floor around Hannibal's bare feet in perpetual optimism. Hannibal was at the stove in his pajama bottoms and--wonder of wonders--a dark blue t-shirt, moving a spatula around one of Will's frying pans. He was unshaven, his hair still wet, and he looked ferociously attractive.

"Good morning," Will mumbled on his way to the coffee pot. 

"Good morning," Hannibal replied, without looking up from the pan.

Will poured himself a mug of coffee, and then, seeing that Hannibal did not appear to have one, another one for Hannibal. He fed the dogs. By the time he returned, Hannibal had made them two plates of toast and scrambled eggs. Will found them knives and forks.

These scrambled eggs were like nothing Will had ever seen, a uniform pale gold in color and so soft he thought he might need a spoon. They were creamy and rich beyond butter; Will almost choked on the first bite. "What the hell did you do to these eggs?!"

"Cooked at a low temperature," Hannibal said with a smile. "Good scrambled eggs take time. Also a bit of half and half, whisked in."

"Jesus." Will forced himself to eat at a decorous pace. Then he glanced at the clock, realized that he had a meeting this morning, and permitted himself to eat a little faster.

"Have you had any contact with Freddie Lounds?" Hannibal asked.

Will groaned, his fork scraping across his plate. "What did she write about me?"

"That you have God on your side," Hannibal said mildly. "You are a religious lunatic, feverish with divine right, and you believe yourself above the law. This makes you dangerous. She thinks the Ripper is either taunting you or courting you, or perhaps both."

Will pressed his hand over his mouth and jaw. "Bishop Wallace is going to kill me," he said through his fingers.

"I'm certain that would violate one of the Commandments."

"Ugh." Will poked his last crust of bread with his fork, an unhappy cast to his lips. "I shouldn't have talked to her."

"What did she want?"

"I don't really know--I didn't let her get that far. I assumed she wanted an exclusive scoop." Will rubbed the center of his forehead with his fingers. "Shit. Shit, the congregation's going to see it, they're going to go nuts--ugh, there's probably going to be an all-congregation meeting about this at some point. They're going to ask for a new priest." Will put his fork down and clutched his hair in his hands.

Hannibal's chair scraped against the floor, and moments later Hannibal's warm arms came around Will's shoulders, and his head came to rest atop Will's own. Will relaxed, just a little bit, especially when Jonah wriggled his nose atop Will's knee. He smiled and remembered to breathe.

"What are you doing today?" Hannibal asked.

Will's eyes drifted closed. "I have a meeting with the deacon this morning, to talk about how the giving tree collection went. A couple of pastoral care appointments. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day planning meetings. And then I really need to finish my sermons, at least the one for this Sunday."

Hannibal pressed a kiss to Will's temple. "You need to rest. You've been very stressed, these past few weeks. You haven't had time to process and metabolize the experiences you've had. Always running full tilt toward the next thing, the next call."

"I can't do anything about it being Christmas."

"No, but you can let me help."

"You can't write my sermons for me, or go to meetings."

"No, but I can cook your meals, remind you to rest." Hannibal's hands were warm across the front of Will's chest. "I can relieve you."

Will gave a short but genuine laugh. "You can't actually fuck my problems away."

Hannibal's chuckle gusted a warm breath against Will's ear. "I didn't suggest that! Such a dirty mind you have, Father." He nipped Will's ear.

Will laughed and pushed him away. " _Don't_ call me that if you're trying to get me in bed, please! If you're saying you want to come over again tonight and cook me dinner, okay, you've convinced me, I won't say no."

"Excellent." Hannibal beamed and dove in for another peck to Will's temple. "I'll take my leave; I need to stop by home and change before my first appointment. But I'll return around--eight, let's say?"

"Yeah, that's fine, I'll be home by then."

"Wonderful. I look forward to it. Have a good day, Will."

\-----

"'Don't mess with someone who has God on his side?'" Crawford boomed down the line. "Who cleared you to speak to the media?"

"She's not actually the media, and I don't actually work for you and I don't need clearance." Will pinched the bridge of his nose and wished it'd been the bishop on the line instead. 

"She has 14 million readers; that makes her the media," Crawford growled. "I don't need higher-ups questioning my choice of consultants. You're the best chance we've got of catching the Ripper, and that means I need you at my crime scenes and not on the bench."

"I'm not a dog that you lead in and out on a leash," Will snapped. "I'm a civilian and a volunteer, and _I'm on your side_. I want to catch the Ripper as much as you do."

Crawford went silent. Will gritted his teeth and breathed in for eight counts, held his breath for four, and breathed out in seven. The muscles in his back and shoulder unwound. 

"I'm sorry," Will said. "That wasn't kind. And I'm sorry if my thoughtless statement to Ms. Lounds damaged the investigation." He opened his drawer and pawed through it for the aspirin.

"No," Crawford sighed, "I'm the one who should apologize. You're not one of my subordinates."

"I'm just." Will stuck the tip of his tongue against his top front teeth for a moment. "I'm not sure how much longer I can keep doing this."

"What's going on? Talk to me."

"I told you that what I do isn't good for me. It's bad for me. And it's...it's getting bad." Will found the aspirin bottle. He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he shook out two pills.

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that there's going to be a day, maybe soon, maybe not so soon, where I'm not going to be able to make myself look anymore." Will swallowed the pills dry. "And you're going to have to be ready for that, for when I set a boundary."

Crawford digested this statement in silence. "We have one more in this sounder, maybe two. You don't want to go back to your congregation and just read about it on Tattle-Crime.com."

"No, I don't," said Will. "But that might be what I have to do, because this is bad for me."

Crawford sighed. "I'm not the Pope, I'm not--"

"I don't listen to the Pope, I listen to the Archbishop."

"--I'm not going to tell you what you ought to do. But I'm going to ask you to consider that this, here, this might be God's work that you're doing. The Ripper is the devil, or as close as we can get to it on God's green earth."

"You sound like Hannibal," Will muttered.

"What?"

"God does set us challenges," Will said, louder. "Sometimes God asks us to do things we'd rather not do. Actually, God asks us to do things like that all the time. But it's also up to us to discern what is God's will and what is man's. That's what I'm trying to discern now."

"All right," Crawford said, after another beat. "I don't really know what all that meant, but I hope you decide, or discern, in my favor."

"I'll let you know."

"One more thing, Father, before I let you go. Freddie Lounds did make one good point: what connection does the Ripper have with you? You said, yesterday, that the Ripper set that scene for you. But why _you?_ "

Will licked his lips. He tipped his head back in his chair and closed his eyes. The Sacrifice of Isaac bloomed on the backs of his eyelids: that sweet, young, unmarked body, the red wound in the white flesh. "The Ripper thinks he knows me. He, maybe he--no, he definitely reads Tattle-Crime. He might even be in contact with Freddie Lounds; you should ask her about that. However he got his information, he knows about me, about my empathy. He's reaching out to me." The Sacrifice of Isaac melted away, replaced by the head of John the Baptist: honey dripping from the comb into his beard, his milky eyes rolled back in his head. "These murders, they're offerings--to himself, but also to me. A symbol of his devotion. He's speaking to me in his language of murder, but also in my language, the language of the Bible."

"And what's he saying?"

Will swallowed. "He's saying, 'I love you. I want you.'"

\-----

"A calabrese-style spicy pork ragu, over creamy polenta," Hannibal pronounced, "with braised kale. It is _quite_ spicy; I hope you can tolerate it."

"I'm from Cajun country; I love spicy food." Will picked up his spoon. How Hannibal still managed to make his food look so attractive in Will's Goodwill bowls continued to be a mystery to him. A spoonful of ragu formed a blood-red sun in the center of a field of golden polenta, with a dark green crescent of kale bordering one side. Will sampled each component individually before stirring the entire bowl together.

"How goes your writing?" Hannibal asked.

Will gulped down a too-large bite and wiped his mouth with his napkin. The sauce left a pleasant tingle on his lips. "Not bad; Christmas Eve sermon is done, just got the Sunday sermon and the Christmas Day sermon to go."

Hannibal picked up his wine glass and leaned forward in his seat. "Would it be welcome incentive if I told you that I've made plans for us tomorrow? But only if you're done with your work, of course."

Will laughed. "Are you saying you'll reward me for getting my work done early?"

"I hope that doesn't offend."

"Is the reward sex? Are you going to withhold sex tonight if I'm not finished with my sermons?"

Hannibal's eyebrows lifted. "Were you expecting sex tonight?"

"I was optimistic. Does that offend _you?_ I don't want you to think I'm just keeping you around for sex."

"I thought nothing of the sort. But I wouldn't want to...distract you, no."

Will snorted. "You being here is a distraction. A welcome one," he was quick to add. "You're not keeping me from my work, if that's your fear."

"I only wish to help," said Hannibal. "Are you encountering some difficulty in your writing?"

Will shook his head as he took another bite of ragu-and-polenta. "Not any more than usual. Advent isn't my favorite part of the liturgical calendar, actually; I don't think the coming of Christ is the biggest thing the Church has to offer. But especially the Sunday before Christmas, that's all the readings are about: the prophecy regarding Immanuel, passage from Romans concerning Jesus Christ our Lord as descended from David, passage from the Gospel of Matthew concerning Mary found to be with child by the Holy Spirit--even the Psalm isn't great, and I usually love the Psalm part of the lectionary."

"What is the Psalm about?"

"It's Psalm 80: Restore us, O Lord of Hosts, let your face shine that we may be saved, etc."

"What do you dislike about it?"

"I don't _dislike_ it," Will said. "It's not like Psalm 137 about dashing little babies against the rocks or anything. It's just not one that calls to me, either. It's a prayer for the restoration of Israel, and it's fine, as far as prayers go, although they were surely disappointed by the Messiah they received. That's probably going to be the direction that I go: that sometimes our prayers are answered, but not in the way that we expect, and while we may be disappointed at first the time may come when we'll appreciate that it was part of a larger plan."

Hannibal chewed a bite of kale; he had not mixed his bowl together. "God works in mysterious ways."

"A lot of the time, yes."

"What way do you see God working when He collapses a church roof on his followers?"

Will sighed. "Are you going to bring that up every time?"

"I'm genuinely curious."

"I don't know; I'm not here to explain how God works to everyone, or in everyone's life. If you want my personal theological take on the matter, I don't believe that God intervenes directly in people's lives like that. God didn't stab me with a knife, and God didn't reach down with some giant divine finger and poke a hole in that church roof, and God doesn't guide the Chesapeake Ripper's hand. God called that hospital chaplain to the path that led her to my hotel room, maybe, and God was with the grieving families of those who lost loved ones in the church. Maybe God is even in the Chesapeake Ripper's conscience. I don't know."

Hannibal scraped his spoon against the bottom of his bowl. "How can you say that God is in one place but not the other? Is God not present everywhere, at all times?"

"I believe that God is where love is," Will replied. "Anyone who's felt love, whether in themselves or from somewhere else, has felt God stirring in and around them."

Hannibal set his empty spoon atop his bowl. He looked at Will, level, across the table. "Then God is not omnipotent."

"No," Will said, quietly. "God is not omnipotent. I want to believe that love conquers all, that love is enough, but the truth is that sometimes it's not. You and I have borne witness to that many times."

Hannibal inclined his head.

"Even so, I believe in a God who suffers alongside us, in love, with love, among love," Will went on. "And that is Christ."

\-----

It was one in the morning when Will finally crawled into bed. Hannibal was on his side, a dark hump under the covers, but he stirred and stretched an arm out toward Will, under the covers.

"Did you finish?" Hannibal asked; he did not sound drowsy in the least.

"I did." Will cradled Hannibal's hand against his chest. Hannibal flattened his palm over Will's pectoral, his thumb stroking Will's nipple through his shirt. "Do I get my reward?"

Hannibal chuckled. "So greedy."

"It's not greedy to take what's offered."

Hannibal leaned in to give Will an ardent, open-mouthed kiss. Will let go of Hannibal's arm to skim his hands down Hannibal's shoulders and then his flanks. He encountered skin all the way down to Hannibal's buttocks. Hannibal gave a pleased little hum as Will sucked in a breath.

"What do you want to do?" Hannibal breathed as he nipped at Will's lower lip.

"God, I could just touch you all night." Will traced his fingers over the curve of Hannibal's buttocks again, and then again.

"I was hoping for a little more than that." Hannibal reached between them to cup Will's cock. He was not quite hard yet, but growing interested. Hannibal caressed the head of Will's cock, and then his testicles.

Will shifted his thighs. "We can take our time, can't we?"

"We can take all the time in the world."

Before Will knew it, he was flat on his back with Hannibal braced above him, his hands on either side of Will's head. Hannibal bent to kiss Will, first on his mouth and then along his jaw and down his neck. He peppered kisses all along the line of Will's collarbone and straight down his chest, with detours to kiss and flick each of Will's nipples with his tongue. Will whimpered and fisted the sheets; Hannibal continued down Will's belly, following the line of hair from his navel downward to his cock, which was now half-hard. He avoided it in favor of kissing the crease between Will's groin and hip, and down his thigh to his knee. Hannibal had disappeared under the covers entirely at this point, and Will flung them aside so that he could see Hannibal pick up his foot and kiss his instep.

"Is this enough time for you?" Hannibal asked with a sly smile that Will could not see in the dark but knew was surely there.

Will flung back his head and let out a shuddering breath.

Hannibal kissed his way up Will's other leg until he came to Will's cock, which was now fully hard and flat against Will's belly. He licked the shaft all over, sucked each of Will's balls into his mouth in turn and laved them with his tongue, let them fall from his lips and took the head of Will's cock in his mouth. Will wove his fingers into Hannibal's hair; he didn't force the issue, just touched him as Hannibal sucked. Hannibal looked up, met Will's eyes, and let Will's cock fall from his mouth. "May I fuck you?" he asked. His lips were shiny with spit.

Will groaned; lust rolled through him in a shock of heat that curled his toes and closed his eyes. "Shit. Shit. Yes. Ah. Stop touching me and get a condom."

Hannibal did as he was told, and Will began to arrange his trembling limbs so that he was on all fours. Hannibal touched Will's shoulder. "On your back," Hannibal whispered. "I want to see you."

Will lay back down. Hannibal tucked a pillow under Will's hips, and Will gathered his legs to his chest. The lube was cold, and Will hissed; Hannibal murmured an apology and pushed more into Will with two fingers, pressing and rubbing to loosen the muscle. He never took his eyes off of Will all the while, and Will felt as exposed as the young man on the altar, naked and opened up with all his viscera displayed. Hannibal removed his fingers, squeezed out more lube, and pressed back in. Will felt loose and slick and sloppy.

"Oh my God, do it," he said. "Just do it already."

Hannibal didn't listen. He kept fingering Will, almost frightening in his relentlessness. He licked his lips, and Will was struck with the sudden sense that Hannibal wanted to _devour_ him. At that moment, Hannibal ducked down and took Will's cock back in his hot, hungry mouth.

Will cried out. He wanted to squirm or buck his hips, but Hannibal had his forearm across Will's thighs and Will had no leverage. Hannibal sucked him so hard that Will thought he might turn inside out from pleasure. He clutched Hannibal's hair, became afraid that he might hurt him, and gripped the sheets instead. His back and thighs protested this treatment but Will couldn't bring himself to care; everything below the waist was taut with pleasure.

Hannibal pulled off with a wet, filthy sound. He pulled out his fingers. Will shivered as cold descended on him. Hannibal hooked Will's legs over his shoulders, lined himself up, and began to push in. Will closed his eyes against the pressure.

"No," Hannibal said. "Look at me."

Will squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shook his head, and finally opened them. Sweat darkened Hannibal's hair and slicked his skin; his breath grated harsh through his open mouth. His lips drew back from his teeth as he pulled out and pushed in again. Will's breath hitched and he forgot to breathe. Hannibal held himself there, all the way in, and bowed his head over Will.

"Tell me," Hannibal said into that tense moment, perched on the edge of something colossal and terrifying, "do you feel God with us now?"

"Yes," Will gasped. "Oh, yes. This is where God is closest."

\-----

Will opened his eyes to sunlight and fresh air streaming in through the open window. He yawned so wide his jaw cracked from it and pushed himself into a sitting position. Hannibal, in the bed beside him, must have been out and come back; his hair was wet and smelled of some masculine and no doubt expensive shampoo. He sat upright against Will's headboard, Will's Oxford Annotated Bible in his lap.

"Good morning," Will said. His thighs and back hurt, not unpleasantly, but in a way that reminded him he was no longer twenty. His head throbbed only a little. "Some light reading?"

"Merely refamiliarizing myself. It's been a while."

Will yawned again. "What time is it?"

"Nearly nine o' clock."

"Jesus."

Will swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shuffled into the bathroom. The air outside of the warm nest of blankets left goosebumps on his bare skin. He took a quick piss, splashed frigid water on his face, and pulled his t-shirt and boxers back on. The dogs lunged at him en masse downstairs, almost knocking him off his feet; Will laughed and opened the back door for them. He refilled their water dishes, poured their kibble, and, feeling magnanimous today, cracked a fresh egg over each bowl. The dogs paused in their gamboling and pricked their ears. Jonah bounded up the steps onto the porch to jump up and down just behind Will, barking and wagging his tail.

"Sit," Will told him, sternly. The other dogs came up. "You all sit. Sit!"

They sat. Will toed their bowls into a line. Ruth quivered.

"Okay," Will said.

The dogs bolted forward and began to eat. Will watched them, a small smile on his lips. He glanced up and over the fields. He froze.

His stag--the one from his dreams--stood there in the tall grass, not even ten feet away.

Will knew that the stag could not be there. The dogs had just been there, frolicking and barking; that would have frightened away any wild animal. Moreover, this stag was some kind of species that Will was pretty sure didn't exist in Virginia. He'd seen white-tailed deer in his yard or from a distance, but never this kind of shaggy, hulking beast, with--were those _feathers_?

The stag snorted, steam rising from its nostrils. Will rubbed his eyes until he saw spots in the darkness and looked back up. The stag was gone. The dogs crunched through their food. Dread bunched up in Will's stomach.

He went back in the kitchen with the carton of eggs. Hannibal was there, clad in pyjama bottoms and a red cable-knit sweater, looking very cozy.

"Ah, there are the eggs," said Hannibal. He was holding a packet of smoked salmon and a package of neufchatel cheese.

"How much food did you _bring_?" Will asked.

"Enough that we wouldn't need to leave the house." Hannibal took the eggs from him and put everything on the counter. "And leave the bed, only occasionally."

"You're insatiable," Will said.

"You're not complaining." Hannibal fetched down a bowl from one of the cupboards.

"Are you fattening me up so you can eat me?" Will wondered.

Hannibal laughed.

Will left the back door open so that the dogs could come and go as they pleased, and they went back to bed after breakfast. Hannibal had left the annotated Bible open on the pillow. "Psalms?" said Will.

"Yes. I was curious about the one you quoted last night." Hannibal, lying on his stomach, turned a few pages and cleared his throat. "'O Lord God of hosts, how long will you be angry with your people’s prayers? You have fed them with the bread of tears, and given them tears to drink in full measure.' This is quite sad."

"A lot of the Psalms are quite sad; they're the prayers of a people in exile. Some of them are angry, too. Will you read Psalm 42? That's one of my favorites."

Will lay in the bed beside Hannibal and listened to the crinkle of tissue-thin pages. He turned in close to Hannibal's warm side, and Hannibal enfolded him in one arm as he read. "As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God? My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, 'Where is your God?'"

"I could listen to you read Scripture all day," Will mumbled. Drowsiness plucked at his eyelids. "Nobody reads the Bible to me anymore."

"I've never read the Bible to another person," Hannibal said, sounding contemplative. "When was the last time someone read it to you?"

"Mmm. Probably seminary, but that was studying, I don't count that. The last time someone fed me with Scripture was..." Will closed his eyes. He heard the beeping of the monitors; the continuous chatter of nurses; the wheezing of the patient in the bed next to his, separated only by a curtain. No one ever told you that the hospital was such a noisy place. And over and under it all, the low susurrus of the chaplain's voice. "Keep reading?"

"'These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival. Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God.'"

Will lay with his eyes closed as Hannibal read the rest of the Psalm, feeling the other man's ribs expand and contract with his breath. He sighed when Hannibal finished, and Hannibal ran his hand down Will's back.

"Do you long for God, as the deer longs for the cool waters?" Hannibal murmured.

"We all long for love," Will murmured. "It's the human condition. And when we find it, we long to be worthy of it, and we long for those we love to grow into our love. That love makes us real to one another. By that love, we see potential in one another, and through that love we show one another their potential. When we express that love, that potential comes true."

Hannibal kissed Will's hair. "So it is that the divine in each of us calls us to live in God's righteousness? In God's love?"

"Something like that." Will rested his chin on the back of Hannibal's shoulder. "Read another one?"

The pages rustled, and Hannibal began to read: "'Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer. From the end of the earth I call to you, when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I; for you are my refuge, a strong tower against the enemy."

They passed the rest of the morning in this manner; at one point, Hannibal rearranged them so that he sat up against the headboard, Will with his head in Hannibal's lap, so that Hannibal could card his fingers through Will's curls. Will thought of the stag in his yard. Did it long for something? The flowing waters of God's love, perhaps?

He realized Hannibal hadn't said anything in a while. Will opened his eyes and found Hannibal just looking at him, the Bible on the other pillow. Hannibal smoothed his thumb over Will's eyebrow.

"My soul thirsts for you," Hannibal murmured. "My flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water."

Will blinked. It took him a moment to recognize the words. He smiled. "Will your lips praise me as long as you live?"

Hannibal picked up Will's hand and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. "Will yours?"

"My soul clings to you," Will breathed. "Your right hand upholds me."

Hannibal bent and kissed him. Will pulled him down so that they lay side by side, and they tangled in the sheets as they moved against each other. It was lazy and slow and so good, just to twine around each other's bodies and not even worry about coming. But Hannibal did make him come with his mouth, and then he put his cock between Will's slick thighs and came there. Will wiped himself off with a corner of the sheet and complained of being hungry, and Hannibal went downstairs and returned with plates of cheese and grapes and little orange tangerines, which he peeled and fed to Will by hand.

"I will also make a joyful noise, when I think of you on my bed," Will said as he nibbled on a morsel of cheese, "and meditate on you in the watches of the night."

Hannibal fed Will a grape. "Greedy," he said reprovingly.

"You're too good to be true," Will sighed. "Is it supposed to be like this? We've known each other, what, four weeks? Not even four weeks."

"Are you concerned?"

"Maybe not as much as I should be," Will admitted.

"Nor I," said Hannibal. "Although, perhaps, I should be."


	7. Numbers 24:4

Will opened his eyes in front of Hannibal's house.

Hannibal was wearing a brown plaid suit and a burnt orange shirt. His hair was slicked back but becoming disarranged around the edges. He looked perplexed, but also pleased to see Will.

"I don't know how I got here," Will blurted out.

Hannibal glanced behind Will's shoulder. "Your car is here, so you must have driven."

Will glanced at his watch. It was past three in the afternoon. "I was at church," he stammered. "I was at church, I led worship, and then I went up to my office, and then I woke up here. Except I wasn't asleep."

"Come in, Will," Hannibal said, very gently. He folded Will into his arms and closed the door behind him. Will clung to Hannibal's lapels and struggled to control his breathing. Hannibal smelled warm and masculine, and faintly of herbs and good cooked food. "You lost time."

Will nodded.

"Are you still having nightmares?"

"All the time," Will confessed.

"You haven't been sleeping well. You're under a great deal of stress. The psychic damage you've suffered, still unprocessed and unmetabolized, is taking a physical toll now as well." Hannibal let go of the embrace. The chill between their separated bodies made Will shiver. "And I imagine you never ate lunch."

Will laughed and shook his head. "I don't remember. Probably not. Usually Ursula slips me a granola bar."

Hannibal tsked. "Take a nap in my bed. I'll have something ready by the time you wake."

\-----

Will opened his eyes to a stag looming over his bed.

This close, he could see his reflection in its bottomless black eyes. He could make out each individual raven-black feather and the sharp points on the stag's antlers. The stag blew warm, foul breath over Will's face and turned away. Its slow, methodical steps echoed against the hardwood floor. Muscles rippled under the feathered hide.

Will threw off the covers and followed, but the stag was gone by the time he reached the hallway. Will stood at the top of the stairs, hands clenched into fists, breathing hard. He rubbed one hand over his face and descended the steps. God, Hannibal's house was freezing.

Hannibal was seated in an armchair in the corner of the kitchen, reading a copy of _Food & Wine_ magazine. He put down the magazine and stood when Will shuffled into the kitchen. "Ah, you're awake. Good; I was hoping that would be soon. How are you feeling?"

"Better, I guess." Will lifted a shoulder. "Hungry," he added.

"Excellent." Hannibal drew a covered dish across the counter toward them. "Just a little cold something, made with ingredients I had on hand. I hope you don't mind it." He lifted the domed lid to reveal a perfectly elegant little sandwich on white bread, cut into crustless triangles and accompanied by two slender pickle spears and a sprig of decorative parsley.

"It looks great," Will said. He took a seat on the stool and bit into it. The salty, spicy filling tasted a little bit like childhood, but with profound complexity of flavor that didn't match his memories, and the bread did more than just dissolve into mush in his mouth. "Deviled ham?"

Hannibal plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and selected a paring knife from the block. "You have an excellent palate."

"Never had it not out of a can before." Will took another bite, and then a bite of the pickle, which was delightfully crisp and just a little tangy.

Hannibal began to slice the apple. "What are the logistics of Christmas Eve, precisely?"

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm trying to determine your schedule," Hannibal explained. He pronounced it in the British fashion, "shed-jool," which Will found charming.

"Oh, um," said Will. "There's a family service and pageant at 5 pm, and then the solemn service at 10:30 pm. That one should end around midnight. Then there's Christmas Day mass at 10:30 am. I'll be free around noon, probably. People don't usually hang around after Christmas Day mass."

Hannibal frowned as he trimmed pieces of red-and-green skin from an apple wedge. "You mean to tell me that you're going to drive all the way back to Wolf Trap at one in the morning, only to turn around and return to Baltimore the next morning?"

"Yes? That's just how the Christmas season works."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea in your current mental state. You need rest. Are you still hearing things?"

Will bit his lip.

Hannibal placed two apple slices on Will's plate. They'd been trimmed of only half their skin; the remaining peel had been shaped into an inverse wedge, two little "horns" that stuck up from the apple's pale flesh. "What's this?" Will wondered. "Deviled apples?"

"Rabbits," said Hannibal. "See the ears? My aunt used to make them for me, when I wasn't feeling well."

They did look like rabbits, now that Hannibal had pointed it out, though those were some very pointy ears. Will bit one of their heads off and chewed.

"Stay at my home," said Hannibal. "At least on Christmas Eve. I don't like the idea of you making the long drive between Baltimore and Wolf Trap in your current state, and snow is forecast."

Will winced. "It's really not--"

"Please," said Hannibal.

Will finished his apple wedge and started on the second one. Hannibal finished peeling a third and placed it on Will's plate.

"You could bring the dogs here, if you needed to," said Hannibal.

"No, no, God, no." Will shook his head at the idea of his dogs shedding all over Hannibal's immaculate marble floors, or one of them having an accident on one of Hannibal's ten thousand dollar rugs. "I'll ask one of the neighbors to take them out; I've done it before. It's, um, thank you. For the offer. It _would_ be a lot easier than driving all the way out to Wolf Trap and back."

"You're welcome," said Hannibal. "I'm concerned about you."

\-----

The stag sprouted wings in his dreams that night: huge, greeny-black things that blotted out the moon. Lightning flashed behind its jagged antlers, and thunder shook the earth as the stag raked the air with jagged hooves.

" _Flee!_ " a voice boomed from the heavens. "Flee for your life, and do not look back or stop, or you too will be consumed."

The stag bugled and reared and flapped great gusts of wind. Will twisted away, but the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he fell to his knees and slid partway down a dune. He scrambled down the rest of his way on all fours, but at the bottom he became mired in some kind of creeping vine. No matter how he flailed they pulled him down even tighter, and the next time he looked they weren't vines but clawing hands connected to desperate faces: Agent Crawford, Bishop Wilson, Ursula, the Ripper's victims. Will screamed and fell backward, arms pinwheeling, and stared straight up into the mad face of the stag.

He dissolved into salt.

Will woke in a sweaty panic, teeth chattering, sheets twisted around his legs. He put towels down over the damp bedclothes but did not lie on them; instead, he went downstairs with his arms clutched around himself.

The dogs leapt to their feet and came right up to him, tails wagging and tags jingling. Will clutched Ruth to his chest; she wriggled and licked his face. Jonah and Theo crowded close, lapping at his forearms and elbows and nuzzling his knees.

"Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing," Will mumbled. "Lord, heal me, for my bones are shaking in terror." He buried his nose in Ruth's curly fur. "Turn, O Lord, save my life," he said, his voice cracking. "Deliver me for the sake of your steadfast love."

Jonah whined. Will squeezed his eyes shut and pretended not to hear the voices.

\-----

"Dr. Lavorini is on vacation until after New Year's," said the receptionist. "Is this an emergency? Dr. Glasser will be back the day after Christmas. Or you can go to Urgent Care."

"No, no." Will rubbed his temple and swallowed two aspirin, dry. "I'd rather see Dr. Lavorini. It's fine, I can wait a week."

"He's back January 3rd. Will that be all right?"

Will closed his eyes and visualized his calendar. "That should be fine."

"8:30 am?"

"Perfect."

Will hung up. 

On Tuesday morning, he filled the dogs' water dishes to the brim and cracked raw eggs over their breakfasts. He took them for an extra long walk in the fields, throwing sticks until his shoulder protested. He gave them all baths. Then he packed his overnight bag and hefted it into the back seat of his car. The dogs watched him from the porch with low heads and tails. "I'll be back tomorrow," he told them. "Mrs. Smrha will be over to check on you and take you on walks. You know her."

Theo turned and walked back into the house. Will sighed.

He locked the dogs in and made the long drive to Baltimore. He kept the radio tuned to a classical Christmas music station and hummed along to "Away in the Manger" and "O Little Town of Bethlehem."

The stag kept pace by the side of the highway, long legs stretching out and bunching under its body as it galloped smoothly at eighty miles per hour.

\-----

The stained glass windows glowed bright in contrast to the dark interior, even on a weak winter morning such as this one. Many of them were merely colorful panes arranged in geometric patterns, but alternating windows depicted a story from the Bible, as requested by various wealthy donors to the church, back in the day: Ruth refusing to leave Naomi; Judge Deborah seated beneath her palm tree; Hannah kneeling before an altar, praying for a child; Mary washing the feet of Jesus; the Good Shepherd, carrying a lamb under his arm; Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane; Faith, Hope, and Love as three young white maidens. But the largest was the one directly over the altar, a round and well-detailed window which depicted Jesus at the well with the Samaritan woman.

Will kneeled before the chancel now and gazed up at the window. Jesus, seated on the lip of the well on the right, was dressed in blue and white. A halo surrounded his head. The Samaritan woman, dressed in red on the left, leaned against her jug. Between them was a well in the European style, made of stone, with a rope and pulley to draw the bucket, and a local tree behind them. All around the curved edges were the words: WHOSOEVER DRINKETH OF THE WATER THAT I SHALL GIVE HIM SHALL NEVER THIRST. 

As Will watched, the well overflowed and rained clear water down on the chancel and down on him. It drenched his cassock and plastered his hair against his head. He clenched his teeth against the cold, and they began to chatter. His hands shivered on his thighs. Will closed his eyes and bowed his head.

_Dear God: You know what is in my heart. You know what preys on my mind. I sin, yet You always forgive; I neglect, and You welcome me back into the fold. I am an instrument of Your peace, Lord; my hands are Your hands. You know that I strive always to embody Your presence in the world. So tell me: what are these signs and symbols that You put before me? Please, make clear the way for me. I know that this is the season for miracles, so please grant me this miracle: let me make it through tonight and tomorrow, and You may have me after that._

Will opened his eyes. His clothes were dry. The stained glass was dry. Will let out his breath.

"Father Graham?" Deacon Landingham's voice echoed off the high rafters.

Will pushed himself to his feet and winced as his knees crackled. Deacon Landingham's arms were full of pine boughs; two more parishioners followed behind her, clutching ribbon and golden stars and other decorations.

"Sorry to interrupt your prayer," said the deacon. 

"No, it's all right," said Will. "I was just finishing up."

\-----

The children's pageant took pride of place at the family service, and if Will's hands shook during the consecration of the Eucharist, if his voice trembled a little, no one remarked on it. He disappeared to his office quickly to gulp down a scalding cup of weak coffee and swallow four aspirin. He turned off the light and sat in the dark. It seemed to help. 

Will peered out the window at Hannibal's dark and shuttered office. He hadn't brought any dinner, and on Christmas Eve he doubted anything nearby was open. Hannibal would bring him food, if he called.

Deacon Landingham knocked on his doorframe. "Father Graham? Mrs. Schafer and I are making a McDonald's run. You want anything? Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Will flapped a hand. "Leave it off," he mumbled. "And I'd love a Big Mac, thanks."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I just have a little bit of a headache. Will you bring me a Coke, too?"

In another place and another life, she would have asked him "What kind?" But this was Baltimore, not New Orleans or Greenville, and to Mrs. Landingham, a Coke was a Coca-Cola. She left Will in the dark with his nostalgia. Will leaned back in his chair and took it.

Thirty minutes later, Will felt sufficiently fortified by his Big Mac and twenty fluid ounces of sugary caffeine to help with the preparations, but the deacon shooed him away and told him to get some rest, he looked a bit "peaky". They had exchanged the bits of pageantry for yet more candles, and the sanctuary smelled of pine and incense. Will stepped outside, passing the choir on their way in.

Snow drifted down in gentle flakes and stuck against his hair and cassock, and the cool air felt good against his overheated face. The streetlights cast golden pools on the slick asphalt, but no one walked the street and no cars hummed by. A curious hush wrapped the world, as if the universe was holding its breath. Behind him, Will heard the choir begin to rehearse "Silent Night." He took a deep breath and went over his sermon in his mind.

_That light is not there to lead us out of the darkness, but to be there with us in the darkness. It is the light that promises, I will never leave you. I will be with you in your darkest hour and your brightest day. I--_

A flash of red caught Will out of the corner of his eye. His train of thought jarred to a stop and derailed. Freddie Lounds loitered at the bottom of the church steps, her chin tucked into a maroon scarf.

"I thought I told you not to come back here," Will said.

"You told me to get off church property and that if I wrote another word about you that you would sue me for libel," Lounds replied. "You didn't say I couldn't come to Christmas Eve service."

Will pulled up his sleeve and glanced at his watch. "You're very early."

"I wanted to be sure to get a good seat." When Will's frown did not relent, Lounds continued, with a coquettish tilt of her head, "Christmas Eve midnight mass means a lot to me. Surely you wouldn't turn away a lapsed member of the body of Christ based on a few stupid articles I wrote in the past?"

Will sighed. "All are welcome, Ms. Lounds. But behave yourself. And don't interrupt the choir practice."

"I wouldn't dream."

Lounds sashayed in through the heavy doors, her heels clicking against the masonry. Will stayed outside for a few minutes longer, but the chill of the outdoors had lost its charm, and he he followed her in soon after.

The stained glass windows warped and melted as Will walked past them; Ruth wailed and plucked at the hem of Naomi's dress; the Good Shepherd's lamb raised its head and bleated; Faith, Hope, and Love caressed one another and hid their faces from Will's prying gaze. The colors seemed too bright, and the overhead lights reached down to pierce him straight through his eyes like railroad spikes. The choir had moved on to "O Little Town of Bethlehem." Will put his hand on the back of a pew to steady himself, as his Big Mac threatened to make a reappearance.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Will forced himself to look up. 

Lounds frowned at him. "You're sweating."

"This cassock is hot. Don't worry about me, Ms. Lounds. Please, have a seat anywhere you like."

Will made his way up toward the front of the sanctuary. The floor kept tilting beneath him, but he put one foot in front of the other and trusted that the floor would be there, and it always was. Like God. Off to one side was the door to the vestry, now used for more than the storage of vestments: seasonal decorations were also kept there, as well as extra tablecloths and candles. Will pulled out his cell phone. He had a text message.

_Merry Christmas, dear Will. I'll see you at Midnight Mass._

Some of the tightness in Will's diaphragm came loose.

Mrs. Smrha didn't pick up, so he left a message. "Hello Mrs. Smrha; this is Will Graham, just calling to check on the dogs. I'm sure everything's all right. Merry Christmas."

He reached into the wardrobe and pulled out his surplice. He put it on, walked out of the vestry--

\--and out of the church. Parishioners streamed out around him, their breaths steaming white clouds. "Wonderful service, Father," said one. "Beautiful message." Someone else brushed by still humming "Silent Night" under her breath. Will stepped back, closer to the wall, to give people more room to pass. He greeted Mrs. Poore and Mrs. Queen by name, but his heart climbed into his throat all the while. He didn't see Hannibal.

Lounds was one of the last to leave. She stood in front of Will, arms crossed and head tilted at a cocky angle. "That was a very nice service, Father."

"Thank you. And you're welcome." Will couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. He wished he remembered more of the service. Or any of it.

"Will there be another service tomorrow?"

"Mass at 10:30," said Will. "Shall I expect you?"

"I think so."

She sauntered away.

Then came the devil in a three-piece suit, his face wreathed in flames. Tall black horns reached up toward the sky. He smiled with a mouthful of flies, and his hands were red with blood. A long, cunning tail curled like a question mark behind him. He sauntered out of the church with the stag on a golden halter. The stag turned and looked at Will with Hannibal's face, pink and naked among the fur and feathers. It snorted a puff of breath from its nostrils, opened wide its raw, pink mouth to reveal a mouthful of bloodied fangs, and screamed.

Will jumped. He might have screamed as well. Hannibal's voice issued not from the stag, but from the fire: "Will?"

The stag reared and struck out with lashing forehooves. Will leapt back, hit his head against the brick, and that was the last he knew of anything.

\-----

Will swam up out of unconsciousness slowly, which was how he knew he had not lost time. He heard beeping. His throat was raw and his eyelids were as heavy as lead, but somehow, he felt better than he had in weeks. Months, maybe.

"Will?"

He had to work very hard to open his eyes. He managed only a fraction of an inch, but that was enough to see white walls and a white ceiling, and a window with a view of a concrete wall. He didn't turn his head so much as let it fall to the side. Hannibal leaned forward, to put himself more in Will's view. He was in a dark green suit with a red-and-gold tie. Christmas.

Hannibal smiled. "How are you feeling?"

Will mouthed, "Wha' happen?" He wasn't sure any sound came out.

"You had a seizure," said Hannibal. "And you had a very high fever. It's no wonder you were hallucinating. For better or for worse, Ms. Lounds was still on the premises, and she called 911."

Will closed his eyes. Oh God. There were probably pictures up on Tattle-Crime by now.

"I took the liberty of going through your phone contacts and calling the bishop," Hannibal went on. "I'm not sure of the exact arrangements, but your flock is taken care of."

"Dogs?" Will tried, his eyes still closed.

"If you tell me which of your neighbors is in charge of their care, I'll call and make arrangements for them to look after your dogs for another day or two. If they're unable, I'm happy to make arrangements for a dog-sitter or a kennel."

The very notion of having to find a kennel or a dog-sitter for his pack of mutts exhausted Will, and he was abruptly overwhelmed with gratitude for this man by his hospital bedside, who after only a few weeks, had committed himself to every aspect of Will's life and his care. What would he be doing now, without Hannibal here?

"Smrha," Will rasped. He was pretty sure some voice did come out that time.

"Rachel Smrha? I believe I saw that name in your phone."

Will nodded, or he thought he did.

One of Hannibal's hands closed over Will's, on top of the covers. "I blame myself; I was perhaps too...distracted to monitor your condition, and too respectful of your boundaries." 

"Not your fault," Will mumbled. He opened his eyes. Next to his bed, Hannibal looked very kind and solicitous and concerned. Will attempted to smile but wasn't sure he got much farther than a twitch. "Merry...Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Will," Hannibal said, and smiled back.

\-----

"God _dammit_ , Graham."

Will sighed. "I'm sorry, Agent Crawford."

Crawford sank into the chair by Will's bedside and sighed. "No, _I'm_ sorry. This is not how I like to spend my Christmas--or you, I imagine. Have the doctors figured out what's wrong?"

"Only that there _is_ something wrong, but they don't know what yet. They've got me on painkillers and steroids and other good stuff." Will gave a jaw-cracking yawn. This was the longest his head hadn't hurt since...he couldn't remember.

"Well, rest and heal up. The Ripper's been quiet, anyway. It's been a week since the last murder." Crawford scowled. "This is unusual for him; usually he drops three bodies inside a week."

"Maybe he's taking Christmas off. He might have family in town. Or maybe he's gone to see family."

"Har har. Well, maybe he is human just like the rest of us." Crawford sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. "By the way, how long have you been dating Hannibal Lecter?"

Will closed his eyes. Crawford had seen the photos in Tattle-Crime, as had probably his entire parish and a significant percentage of the U.S. population: Will, pale and sweaty in Hannibal's arms, his eyes rolled back in his head. Afterward, Hannibal had asked Will to smile, to raise his arms, and recite his name, in order to determine that he hadn't had a stroke. There were photos of that, too, and photos of Hannibal getting into the ambulance after him. Lounds hadn't been allowed go with them, and so she'd gone home to write of how "The Fighting Priest," overcome by the work of pursuing the Ripper, had suffered a psychotic break.

"A few weeks," Will said.

"Surprised the hell out of Alana--Dr. Bloom. She tells me that in medical school he had affairs, not relationships, but I doubt he'd be riding to the hospital with an affair."

Hannibal had gone home for a few hours, "to attend to matters," he said. He'd promised to be back later that night, with dinner. Will looked forward to it. Not that he _minded_ hospital food--Will ate worse on a regular basis--but Hannibal's food was, of course, always a treat.

"Is it true, what Tattle-Crime said?" said Crawford. "Did I break you?"

Will swallowed. His mouth was dry. "Not even close."

\-----

Hannibal returned to the hospital after dark, bearing Will's overnight bag and news from Ms. Smrha: she could look in on the dogs for another day or two, but not over the weekend. Hannibal assured Will that he was making arrangements. He also had with him the familiar leather bag, containing two still-hot ceramic bowls of something he claimed was chicken soup.

They ate at the small table in Will's room. Will had never seen black-skinned chickens or eaten ginseng, but he trusted Hannibal when he said that the soup was restorative. It tasted amazing, anyway: bitter from herbs, sweet from red dates, and spicy from ginger. The chicken had been cooked so long that the meat just fell off the bone. Will felt restored already.

"I've spoken to your doctor," said Hannibal. "They want to keep you overnight for observation."

Will shrugged. He'd figured that would be the case.

"How are you feeling?"

"Amazing, actually," Will admitted. "I mean, I'm tired all the time, but I think that's from the painkillers as much as anything else. But my head doesn't hurt, and I feel like I can actually think. I didn't realize I'd spent the last month swimming through cotton."

"Your fever has gone down since you've been admitted," said Hannibal. "I'm sure that was a contributing factor."

"I've been thinking about the Chesapeake Ripper," said Will.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Agent Crawford came to see me earlier."

"I hope he was appropriate."

"Oh, he was," said Will. "Yelled at me to take better care of myself. I think that's how he shows affection. But he mentioned something while he was here, about how it's been a week since the Chesapeake Ripper last ripped, and how that was unusual for the pattern because usually he kills three or four people within days of each other."

Hannibal ate a strip of chicken. "Did Crawford ask you to work, while you were in the hospital?"

"No, no, I've been thinking about it on my own. The most recent murders, how we think they're directed at me, they're offerings of devotion to me, maybe. The Ripper thinks he knows me, he's enamored with me. I joked to Crawford that maybe he's taking Christmas off, but maybe that's actually the case. He didn't want to kill anyone too close to Christmas because he knew I'd be busy."

"You're implying that the Ripper is able to consider the needs of others," said Hannibal. "As if he has empathy."

"I think he does have empathy. He has feelings--he feels something for me, anyway--and he lives in society, he blends in with society. He looks normal; nobody knows what he is. That means he must have a reasonable knowledge of what empathy looks like, if nothing else. Or we can look at this another way: he wanted to be sure that he would have my full, undivided attention, and he knew he wouldn't have that around Christmas. So he decided to wait."

Hannibal sipped his soup. "That's quite a theory."

"You don't believe me?"

"No, actually, I think it's likely to be accurate," said Hannibal. "What do you plan to do with this knowledge?"

"I don't know yet." Will scraped the bottom of his bowl. He wished it'd been a little larger. "Maybe I'll see if I can't get him to just...talk to me. There's no need to go around leaving dead bodies like presents. We can socialize like adults."

Hannibal set down his spoon. "Will, what are you proposing?"

"I know, I know, it's dangerous, but." Will pushed his empty bowl away and put his head in his hands. "I might be the only one who has a chance of reaching him."

"You are not Christ, Will. You can't save everyone."

Will licked his lips. "But I'm the only one who can do _this_."

Hannibal put his hand in the center of the table, palm up. Will took it. Hannibal twined their fingers together. "You are the worthiest man I know, Will. So you plan to, what? Ask him to meet you during office hours?"

"I'll think of something." Will stroked his thumb over Hannibal's knuckles. "I'm worried about you, you know."

"Me?"

"Yeah. It's very likely that he reads Tattle-Crime--I'm almost positive he does, because that's probably where he's gotten most if not all of his information about me. Freddie Lounds has been...thorough in her research. That means he's probably seen the photos of you, um, helping me, and he's not going to be happy about that. He's obsessed with me."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," said Hannibal. "I can take care of myself."

\-----

Lounds didn't have her number listed on the Tattle-Crime website, of course, so Will contented himself with sending her an email.

_Dear Ms. Lounds,_

_I told you that if you printed another word about me, that I would sue you for libel. I have decided not to make good on that threat; rather, I think we can work together toward a common good: stopping the Chesapeake Ripper. What do you say? Give me a call at 703-555-7897 or drop by the hospital. I'm sure you know which hospital I'm at._

His phone rang the next morning: PRIVATE NUMBER. Will answered it with, "Good morning, Ms. Lounds."

"I'm not an altruist," she said. "Why should I help you catch the Chesapeake Ripper? If he sniffs a trap, he'll come after me."

"Because he's a danger to everyone," said Will. "You think you're safe from him now? You're not. Nobody is. We don't know what rules he plays by, or even if he has any. You know his victims as well as I do, and there's no pattern, no rhyme or reason. He might take offense at your fashion sense, or your hair color, or your website."

"I'll take my chances," she said. "Out of all the people in the greater Chesapeake Bay area to rip, why me? Try again. Why should I stick out my neck for you?"

Will blew out a breath. He pushed his curls up from his forehead. His hair was getting long; he needed a haircut soon. "I want you to send a message to the Ripper for me."

Freddie went dead silent, which meant she was thinking. Will plowed on: "I'm pretty sure he reads Tattle-Crime. He's a narcissist: he loves reading about himself. And he's read everything you've written about me. I'll send him a message through your website--not the Washington Post, not The New York Times, but Tattle-Crime.com. And if we end up catching him, that'll be part of your reputation for the rest of your life. You'll be the writer that helped bring down the Chesapeake Ripper."

Will held his breath. That continued silence had to be the sound of dollar signs dancing in front of Freddie Lounds' eyes. Finally, she said, "Okay, I'm interested. What's the message?"


	8. 1 Corinthians 13:12

"I reiterate that this is _against medical advice_ ," said Dr. Ballard. "Your symptoms are managed now, but they could come back at any moment."

"And if they do, I'll come back to the hospital," Will said from his seat at the edge of the bed. "It's okay; Hannibal's looking after me. He's a doctor."

Dr. Ballard gave Hannibal a skeptical look. Hannibal, seated in a chair by the side of the bed, spread his hands palms up. "I'll keep a careful eye on him, I assure you."

"I could be in here for a week, weeks, months, while you figure out what's wrong with me," Will grumbled. "But I feel better, my head doesn't hurt, I feel like I can finally _see_. It was, it was probably stress, or something."

"All right," said Dr. Ballard, somehow making it sound like, _And where did you get your medical degree?_ "The nurse will be back with some forms and a list of medications, and then you'll be free to go."

Will swung his legs up on the bed and sat with his back against the incline. "Can I check on the dogs?"

Hannibal handed over his tablet. It was up on Tattle-Crime. The headline across the top read A MESSAGE TO THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER, but the body of the latest article read only _1 John 1:9_. Will closed the browser and swiped to the kennel's app.

"'If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness'," Hannibal said. "Are you asking the Ripper to confess to you?"

"If the Ripper wishes to confess and to participate in the sacrament of Reconciliation, I am prepared to offer it." Will's three dogs were all in the same large, sunny room with painted concrete walls and floors decorated with large brown pawprints. Toys littered the floor, and a stainless steel trough provided water. Ruth and Jonah were asleep on their dog beds; Theo sat in a corner and scratched himself. Will didn't want to know how much this kennel cost, especially at the last minute during the holiday season.

"You think he will come to meet you face to face?"

"I think he's left me two bodies saying that he's fascinated by me, or something to that effect," said Will. "I think he's not averse to the prospect."

"And what then? The FBI?"

"No." Will tapped out of the app and set the tablet aside. "No, I don't think so. He's smart; he'll know if it's a trap. I think it's important that it be just me, at least then."

Hannibal leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, his hands wrapped around each other in a tense ball. "This is _extremely_ dangerous, Will."

"You think I don't know that?" Will pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes. "I'm not law enforcement; I don't want any of this to be happening right now. But it is, and for some reason the Ripper has picked _me_. I don't know what he wants from me, so I plan to ask him."

"But why not Crawford?"

"I don't want anyone else to get hurt, and someone _will_ get hurt if he's there. If the Ripper comes, we'll talk, and whatever else," Will licked his lips and swallowed, "and whatever else happens, will happen. But the seal of the confessional binds me to not reveal the content of our conversation to anyone, and priest-penitent privilege means I can't legally be compelled to testify."

Silence welled up between them. "You don't think he deserves justice for his crimes?" Hannibal asked, at last.

Will let his hands fall away. He blinked up at the ceiling. "That depends on what you mean by justice. Divine justice and the legal system aren't always the same thing." He turned to face Hannibal and offered him a wan smile. "I'm here to offer the law of love."

Hannibal didn't smile back. "Do you truly believe that if you only love the Ripper enough, that he will see the light and the error of his ways?"

"No," said Will. "But it's all I've got."

\-----

"I've set up the guest room for your stay," said Hannibal. "I thought you might appreciate having your own space, while you're here."

"You thought right," said Will.

Hannibal did not offer to help Will up the steps, but he did go slowly and carried Will's bag for him. He showed Will to a small room on the first floor, done up in pleasant hues of blue and green, with an adjacent half-bath. Will sank down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Three days in the hospital and he was a deconditioned mess. He couldn't wait to take a real shower, but there were stairs between him and that dream.

"How's your appetite?" Hannibal slung Will's duffel on the foot of the bed and began hanging Will's shirts in the wardrobe.

Will put his hand on his stomach. "I could eat."

"That is not convincing," Hannibal said with a smile. "I only wanted to know what time to serve dinner. Our Christmas has been much delayed."

Will hung his head. "God, I'm sorry."

"Your illness is hardly your fault, and the ingredients have kept quite well. I only hope you have an appetite for it."

"I can always eat your food."

Hannibal finished hanging Will's trousers. He put his hand on Will's shoulder, while Will put his hand in the small of Hannibal's back and pressed his face into Hannibal's abdomen. Hannibal smelled like wool and hospital antiseptic and always a little bit of good kitchen smells.

"I'm glad that you're here," Hannibal said.

"Me too," Will said, muffled into Hannibal's sweater. "I'm so fucking grateful for you. You're amazing. I don't deserve you."

Hannibal slid his fingers up the back of Will's neck and into his hair. "You deserve only the best, dear Will. And I intend to see that you get it."

\-----

Will opened his eyes at the bottom of a deep valley. Black, craggy mountains rose all around him, and bones lay in heaps and piles all along the ground: jagged and splintered femurs; cavernous rib cages clawing toward the sky; grinning, empty-eyed skulls. The sky sagged with low-bellied stormclouds, and a strong wind whistled through crannies and the hollow bones. Will hugged himself, rubbing his goose-pimpled upper arms.

Something crunched behind him. Will spun round to see Hannibal, dressed as prim and proper as he ever was, in a three-piece suit and a white-and-red paisley tie. He did not look at all distressed to be surrounded by the evidence of death; indeed, the expression on his face was one of mild intrigue, a sort of _what do we have here?_

"Can these bones live?" he asked Will.

Will shook his head. "You know they can't."

"Try it," Hannibal suggested.

Will unstuck his tongue from his palate, licked his lips, and addressed the bones: "O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord; the Lord God says to you that breath shall enter you, and you shall live. The Lord lays flesh and sinew and skin on you, and puts breath in you, and you shall live, o bones, and know the Lord!"

The wind blew harder, and at first Will thought that rattling was just the wind. But it continued and grew stronger, and the time-blackened bones moved. 

At first they just rolled and tumbled over each other, as if tossed about by the gusts, but then they leapt up in the air and began to adhere. Feet and legs grew upward into an enormous trunk, tall and then taller, and then it fell onto all fours.

It was the stag from Will's nightmare. A human skull flew up to take its place at the head, and rib bones assembled a grotesque parody of antlers. Will took a step back, his mouth dry and his hands curled into trembling fists. The stag shook itself with a rattle of bones. Its jaw hung open to issue a wheezing, papery laugh. Will looked to Hannibal, who examined the creature with that same distant interest as before, his hands gathered behind his back.

"What is this?" Will demanded. "Some kind of joke?"

Hannibal seemed surprised by the question. "What joke would this be? You're the one who spoke it to life."

Will woke up.

He wasn't sweating, and as far as he could tell he wasn't feverish. Will sat up and rubbed both hands down his face. 

_Dear God: I'm grateful for all You've done for me, I really am, such as not letting me hit my head and die outside of my church and sending Hannibal to look after me, but is there something You're trying to tell me with these nightmares? You never did clear up the question of signs or madness. Or both. I guess both is always an option. Anyway, feel free to chime in anytime, Lord._

He swung his legs out of bed. The floor beyond the rug was cold. Will found a pair of slippers in the closet and put them on. He pulled on a robe as well, belting it snugly around the waist.

Thus attired, he stepped out into the hall, where sweet and savory scents assaulted him like a physical presence. He stood there for a moment, lightheaded with hunger, before making his way toward the dining room. Before he had taken three steps in that direction, however, Hannibal appeared behind him and touched his shoulder. Will jumped; Hannibal was in socked feet, which was why Will hadn't heard him coming.

"Ah, you're awake," said Hannibal. "Hungry?"

"Yes!" Will exclaimed, maybe a little too loudly, but the hallway really did smell amazing.

"We'll be dining in the kitchen."

Hannibal led the way, his fingertips against Will's elbow. The delicious smells increased as they neared the kitchen, and then Will stopped.

Will had privately thought of this corner of the kitchen as the "spectator spot," with a small armchair, a coffee table, and an end table where Hannibal usually kept a bowl of fruit. Now Hannibal had transformed it with thick rugs across the floor and piled cushions, and the coffee table was set with small plates of olives, hummus, flatbread, and more dips and dishes that Will didn't recognize. A garlic-studded roast occupied pride of place, surrounded by whole fresh figs, fat clusters of red and green grapes, and short, waxy candles. Will smelled incense.

"You once mentioned something about love feasts," Hannibal murmured by Will's ear.

A shocked laugh startled its way out of Will, who buried his face in his hands. "You planned this for Christmas?"

"Yes; a small gift, from me to you." Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will's waist and set his chin on Will's shoulder. "Would you let me wash your feet, Father?"

"Don't call me that," Will said into his hands, but a fresh shiver worked its way down from neck to ankles. He couldn't remember the last time someone had washed his feet. The congregation was too large to wash everyone's feet on Maundy Thursday and end the service at a reasonable hour; instead, they washed the feet of "representatives" while the rest of the congregation sang _Ubi Caritas_.

"Sit. I'll wash your feet." Hannibal let go of Will and retrieved what appeared to be a large oval roasting pan. He poured steaming water from a silver kettle and mixed it with water from the tap and a few drops from a dark brown bottle on the counter. The scent of lavender rose into the air, to mingle with the incense and the burning candles. He brought the pan to Will and kneeled. Will clutched the armrests. Hannibal rolled up his sleeves and picked up first one foot, and then the other, and placed them in the water.

The water was hot but not scalding. It felt so good that Will wanted to moan, and he bit his lip against the noise that threatened to escape when Hannibal rubbed his palm over the top of Will's foot and then his sole, digging his thumb into Will's instep. Hannibal worked his fingers between each toe, pausing every now and then to splash more water over Will's foot so that he didn't grow chilled. Then he put that foot down and did the same to the next one.

Will curled forward and pushed his fingers into Hannibal's hair. He hadn't slicked it back with its usual pomade in a few days now, nor worn his typical three-piece suits. Come to think of it, he had spent a lot of time in Will's hospital room. What had happened to his practice? Didn't he have patients? Hannibal worked his palm over Will's heel with reverence. The inside of Will's head buzzed. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

Hannibal used the dishcloth draped around his neck to dry Will's feet and placed them back on the plush rug. He had not looked Will in the eye this entire time, but now he did, and Will's breath caught.

He reached down and tugged the dishcloth from Hannibal's hand. "Now you."

"There's really no need--"

"No," Will said, firmly. "It's a reciprocal act. At the feast, we are all disciples of Christ. Hurry up, before the water gets cold."

They changed places. Hannibal's feet were large, with well-knuckled toes. It occurred to Will that though he had seen Hannibal naked many times, he had never paid much attention to the man's feet. They showed no sign of whatever event that had taken his parents and his sister from him at such a young age, no imprints of the orphanage that had taught him his early lessons. Will caressed them and worked his fingers between each toe, using his cupped hands to splash water over them every now and then so that they didn't grow cold.

He looked up as he dried Hannibal's feet, just as Hannibal had, and found Hannibal looking down at him with hungry sadness. Will paused. "What is it?"

Hannibal reached down and stroked the skin just under Will's ear. "You're very dear to me."

Will pressed a kiss to Hannibal's instep. "And you, me."

Hannibal's fingers pressed, briefly, into the back of Will's neck. "If you're done, we'll dine."

"Yes."

They left the basin of cooling water and took their seats on the cushions. Will wouldn't be able to handle sitting on the floor for long--he was no longer in college--but for now it was fine to sit on his hip, braced up on one arm, while beside him Hannibal carved a piece from the roast. No forks, Will noticed; and no empty plates, either. Finger bowls of water, for rinsing, but no napkins. The only concession to modernity was the glass decanter of jewel-red wine and two glass goblets.

"I tried to adhere to foods that would have been available at the time," said Hannibal. "Roasted lamb; hummus; stewed lentils; olives, flatbread; grilled sardines; za'atar dip; yogurt; kidneys apicius."

"You and your kidneys," Will chuckled.

"I found a historical recipe and could not resist. It's very similar to the deviled kidney, actually." Hannibal carved a morsel of lamb from the roast and held it out for Will. "Come, eat."

Will's lips closed around Hannibal's fingers just a moment as he took the meat. Hannibal watched as Will chewed and swallowed. The lamb was tender and not too gamy and left a slick of olive oil and rendered fat across his tongue. Hannibal smiled at whatever expression he saw on Will's face and cut another piece. 

So the meal went: Will tore off a piece of flatbread, dipped it in the za'atar, and held it out for Hannibal to eat; Hannibal mounded a piece of flatbread high with slices of kidney and fed it into Will's mouth. Hannibal poured a glass of wine and held it out; Will poured another, and they drank from each other's glasses. Hannibal sucked lamb juices from Will's fingers, and Will licked yogurt from the inside of Hannibal's wrist. Olive oil dripped on Will's shirt; red wine stained Hannibal's collar. Neither of them complained. Their kisses tasted of lamb and tahini, and Will was dizzy with affection and wine.

"I have a gift for you," Hannibal murmured.

Will blinked. It took him a moment to understand Hannibal's words. "Another one?"

"Just a small physical token."

Hannibal drew a small box from beneath the armchair and placed it on the table, in front of Will. Will opened it gingerly, aware that his fingers were sticky. Nestled on a bed of tissue paper was a white straw tree ornament, shaped like a many-pointed star.

"These are traditional ornaments in my home country of Lithuania," Hannibal said.

"Oh," Will breathed. "Thank you. It's beautiful." He closed the box and kept his hands around it as Hannibal brushed his lips against Will's ear. "I didn't get you anything."

"You are more than enough," Hannibal assured him.

Will gave a breathy laugh. "Are your feelings so disinterested? Is this agape?"

"Agape is the love of god for man, and man for god; it is felt and continues to be felt even without any benefit to the self." Hannibal bared his teeth as he sawed off another piece of lamb and held it out for Will. The roast was very rare inside, and red juices pooled on the carving board. "I assure you, my feelings for you are selfish; I derive every benefit."

They ate and drank and kissed some more, and the next time Will spilled wine down Hannibal's chin he sucked it off Hannibal's lips and lapped it from the hollow of his collarbone. He unbuttoned Hannibal's shirt to reach more of it, and at that point Hannibal put his hand on Will's chest and said, "If this is to continue, we'll need to relocate. I'm too old to be fornicating on the floor."

Will snickered but conceded that his back and knees and buttocks were none too happy with his extended stay on the floor already, and so they helped each other to their feet. Will finished unbuttoning Hannibal's shirt and pushed it down his shoulders so that he could suck the rest of the wine from his skin, tongue rasping over the graying fuzz on Hannibal's chest. He felt Hannibal's heartbeat beneath his lips and thought, wildly, that he could taste Hannibal's adoration.

Hannibal stroked Will's hair. "Shall we go upstairs?"

Will nodded, and they walked hand in hand up to Hannibal's bedroom, pausing every now and then to kiss and remove more clothing, so that they left a trail of shirts and trousers and underthings behind them. By the time they rolled onto Hannibal's bed they were both naked and greedy for each other's flesh. Their kisses tasted less like parsley and olive oil and more like the simple facts of each other's bodies, and they pressed against each other and kissed for a long while, until Will thought he might be losing time again.

Hannibal broke the kiss and began to map his way down Will's body, stopping every few inches to sniff and lick and tongue, so that by the time he'd made his way past Will's navel Will was already moaning and curling his toes into the covers. Will's cock lay hard and heavy against his lower abdomen, and he gasped when Hannibal sucked it into his mouth all in one go and proceeded to give Will the most thorough, luscious blowjob he had ever received. He braced his hands against Hannibal's shoulders and kicked his heels against the bed before hooking one over Hannibal's back.

"Oh God," Will breathed. Hannibal had a mirror angled above the fireplace. He hadn't noticed it the other times he'd been in Hannibal's room, but he couldn't take his eyes off of it now. They were not quite in the right position for ideal enjoyment, but Will could make out the long, sinuous line of Hannibal's spine, and he could see the faintest suggestion of Hannibal's head moving up and down. Hannibal sucked harder and just touched his teeth against the thin skin of Will's cock, and Will had to shut his eyes and cry out at the ceiling.

Hannibal pulled off Will's cock with a wet pop and rested his chin on Will's thigh. Will kept his eyes closed and tried to slow his breathing. He put one hand over his mouth and bit the soft flesh of the ball of his thumb.

Hannibal pushed open Will's thighs; Will got the idea and pulled his legs up against his chest, his eyes still shut. He felt Hannibal's fingers press slickly against his opening, retreat, and return to push in more lube.

"Cold," Will grumbled.

Hannibal murmured an apology but did not relent, and after a while Will could no longer feel the chill. He just felt wide open and hotly anticipatory. He swallowed when the blunt head of Hannibal's cock finally pushed against him and into him. Hannibal shouldered his way under Will's knees, so that Will no longer had to hold himself up, and he planted his hands on the mattress on either side of Will and began to thrust.

"Harder," Will gasped.

"My dear, you were _just_ in the hospital," Hannibal rumbled.

"Yeah, and I want you to fuck me harder," Will said.

"I'll be the laughingstock of my colleagues," Hannibal muttered, but he grabbed Will by the shoulders so that he wouldn't slide so much on the bed and gave Will what he'd asked for. The room filled with the loud, vulgar sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and Will's cries, growing louder and more strident as he dug his fingernails into Hannibal's shoulders.

Hannibal gasped and gave a last few irregular thrusts, ending with a final one that pushed him all the way in and Will all the way down into the mattress. Will felt as if he were being smothered, but he loved it, and he clutched Hannibal to him with all of his limbs when Hannibal tried to pull away.

"We both need a shower," Hannibal murmured.

"Not yet," Will mumbled. "Stay like this, just for a moment."

And he did.

\-----

Will woke to an empty bed the next morning, but this did not surprise him. What surprised him were the voices coming from downstairs, one of which was clearly Crawford's.

His clothes were nowhere to be seen--still strewn all over the stairs, for all he knew--and so Will pulled on Hannibal's dressing gown and padded down the stairs in his bare feet. The cold floor curled his toes. His head hurt again, and he felt groggy and muzzy and a little nauseated from all the food and wine last night. How had the ancient Greeks and Israelites managed it?

He found Hannibal and Crawford in the dining room, Hannibal with his arms folded over his chest and a cross look on his face and Crawford fuming with a storm-laden expression. Hannibal turned his head just slightly as Will hesitated on the threshold. "Will," he said. "I hope we didn't wake you."

Will shook his head. "I was hoping to go to Mass," he said, quietly. "But that's not happening, is it?"

Crawford's nostrils flared. "I tried to call you," he said.

Will had no idea where his cellphone was. Probably in his bag, all the way in the guest bedroom. "The Ripper?"

"Yes. _Then_ I tried to get ahold of Dr. Lecter, thinking he might know where you were, but he wasn't answering his phone, either. And lo and behold, here you were. Which is just as well; the crime scene is closer to here than Wolf Trap."

"You are not obligated to go, Will," said Hannibal. "Agent Crawford has no hold over you."

"Just let me get dressed," said Will.

Hannibal sighed. "And I will make coffee, I suppose."

\-----

Twenty minutes later, Will was in Crawford's car, taking ginger sips of coffee from one of Hannibal's elegant vacuum-sealed travel flasks while Crawford droned in Will's ear. "It was taking so long to reach you that my people might have started processing the scene by now, though I've asked them to leave the main part as intact for you as possible. He left the murder weapon, this time," Crawford added. "And a note. He's getting bold, or he's getting careless, or both. Either way, it's good for us."

Will roused himself. "A note?"

"Yes. It's probably for you, since you sent him that little message in Tattle-Crime yesterday."

Crawford did not sound angry about it. Will waited.

"You should have cleared that with me," said Crawford.

"You're not my supervisor."

"No, but this is my investigation. You're interfering with a federal investigation. Obstructing justice. That's a crime."

"You're not going to have me arrested."

"No," Crawford agreed, "though I damn well should."

The crime scene was an abandoned observatory outside of Baltimore, a domed white building with a telescope protruding from its top. Will got out of the car, his footsteps crunching on the silvered grass. A chill breeze gnawed on his ears and crept under his collar. Will wondered at the choice of venue.

The interior of the observatory was dim and stark and somehow even colder than the outside. Will wrapped his arms around himself and wished he'd brought a heavier coat. The blue-jacketed forensics unit inside the building stopped their scurrying, turning as one body to watch as Will crossed the swept concrete floor. He stopped. Coffee burned the back of his throat.

She had been tied to a wooden frame and posed, one hand upright and bearing some kind of card. The other hand balanced a long, two-handled saw, one handle against the floor and the other in her hand. She was naked, and had quite clearly been sawn in half and stitched back together with fine, even sutures. It had taken someone a very long time and a lot of work and care. Will put one hand over his mouth and swallowed. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Crawford had gone still and hard.

"Well?" Crawford asked, harshly. "What do you see?"

Will closed his eyes.

The observatory vanished.

_You asked for my confession, Father, and here it is._

The frame whirled away. The woman collapsed to the floor, her blonde hair spilling like blood around her blank and ashen face. Her blue eyes gazed sightlessly up at the sky. She peeled in half like a zipper undoing itself, and her viscera spilled out in wet, messy piles.

_I am a violent man. A zealous and jealous man. But I can leave behind everything for you._

She grew together again. Blood flushed beneath her skin. Her chest rose and fell; she opened her eyes. She sat up and gazed disinterestedly at Crawford. Her hair gathered behind her head in a severe ponytail.

_This is my offering to you. This is my design._

Will opened his eyes. He looked at Crawford, who stared at the display with the bleak and empty face of a seaside bluff.

"You knew her," he said.

Crawford bowed his head. "I won't ask how you knew that."

"She was one of yours," said Will. "You must have thought she was dead."

"We never found her body," Crawford said, tonelessly. 

Will considered the display again. He walked around it as the forensics team photographed and peered and scraped and bagged. They didn't touch the card in her hand. It was for Will, but Will wasn't ready to look at it yet. "She was killed and stitched somewhere else and then brought here," he said.

"No duh," said one of the agents, the woman with long black hair who'd once given Will a Luna bar. "No blood here."

One of the technicians swabbed the saw. It was an old and weatherbeaten thing, spotted with orange rust. Will had seen such things at flea markets and yard sales. He studied the dirty teeth and glanced at the surgical precision of the sutures. "This isn't the murder weapon," he said.

"I'd put my money on a band saw, personally," said the older male technician. "We'll have to wait for the autopsy to confirm." He snapped off the gloves. "She was alive when he did it." His face was grim. Will heard Crawford, behind him, take a deep, unsteady breath.

One of Crawford's team members. The Ripper had been hanging onto her for all these years. For what reason? A trump card of some kind. An ace in the hole. And yet he relinquished her now--why?

"So what's this one about?" Crawford snapped. "Is this a Biblical one too?"

Will nodded. "Simon the Zealot. He was martyred by being sawn in half. One of the traditional stories," here he took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, "one of the traditional stories, though it's not historically accurate, is that he was a zealot, one of the people who advocated a violent overthrow of Roman rule. But he gave up his violent philosophy in order to follow the peacemaking ways of Christ."

Silence flooded the dark observatory. Outside, a crow cawed.

"Then this is, what, he's announcing his retirement?" Crawford demanded. "He found God?"

"Maybe."

All that remained now was the card, which had been secured to her fingers with a piece of twine. Will accepted a pair of blue nitrile gloves from the dark-haired woman before he unlooped the string and unfolded the paper. It was a simple rectangle of white card stock, about the size of a post card. Someone--the Ripper--had scrawled in block letters _Jude 1:12_.

"Looking it up," said one of the technicians, the younger one with the beard. He held up his smartphone. "'These people are blemishes at your love feasts, eating with you without the slightest qualm--shepherds who feed only themselves. They are clouds without rain, blown along by the wind; autumn trees, without fruit and uprooted--twice dead.'"

"Twice dead," Crawford muttered. "What does it mean, Father?"

"I don't know," Will said, his face straight, but deep inside an abyss yawned open and began to scream.

\-----

Will had Crawford take him to the church, where his car sat covered with a thin dusting of snow. He didn't bother brushing any of it off, just got in and peeled out of the parking lot with a white-knuckled grip around the steering wheel. All of Baltimore curled around him like a hungry snake, and all Will wanted was to be gone.

It was possible that Will lost time then, but it was also possible that he just drifted, consumed by the gaping maw in his psyche that had yet to close. It was also possible that it was trauma-induced amnesia. But the next time Will had any awareness of himself or what was happening, his headlights flashed over a dog trotting alongside the highway.

He pulled over. The dog retreated into the brush by the side of the road. Will could just make out the end of a rope trailing from around its neck. He went back to the car and rummaged through the glove compartment. He found an open packet of teriyaki-flavored beef jerky that had been there for God knows how long. He went back to the dog and squatted, so that he didn't tower over the animal. "C'mere, boy," he said, holding out the beef jerky. "Or girl, I guess. C'mon, you must be hungry."

The dog darted out, snatched up the meat from Will's hand, and fled back into cover.

"Smart dog," said Will. "It's okay, I've got more here. I can wait."

Will's neck and hamstrings were sore from crouching and bending over, but he coaxed the dog into the back of the car. He fed it the rest of the beef jerky and scratched it behind the ears. The dog didn't growl or snap, which Will took as a good sign. It was not any breed Will recognized, with a mottled brown coat and a curly, plumed tail. A retriever mix of some kind, maybe. 

Silence greeted Will when he opened the door. He paused on the doorstep for a moment, frayed rope in hand. He had to pick up the dogs from the kennel, which he wasn't even sure where it was or whether he'd be able to retrieve his dogs without Hannibal there. The new dog whined, and Will led it inside and shut the door. This dog needed a bath. For all he knew, it had fleas.

The dog was indeed a boy, Will discovered by virtue of bathing, drying, and brushing him. By then it was afternoon, and Will had definitely missed Mass. Hannibal hadn't called or texted. Will poured himself two fingers of whiskey, neat, and watched the new dog roam around the house and sniff things. He shouldn't have brought in a new dog when his other dogs weren't here. Introducing them would be a mess. He didn't even know if this dog was housebroken.

Halfway through his whiskey, Will realized he hadn't eaten all day. He opened the refrigerator and remembered the time Hannibal left him stew. He shut the door, bent over the sink, and brought up the whiskey. Not surgical trophies, but offerings. Will had said it himself. He braced himself against the edge of the sink. He'd been so _stupid_. Hannibal had barely even been hiding it from him, feeding him _deviled kidney_. He turned on the tap and rinsed out his mouth and washed his face. 

Someone with medical training.

_"I killed a patient...or it felt like I did."_

Raised religious as a child, probably Catholic.

_"...sent to an orphanage. It was there I learnt my prayers…"_

Well-educated, well-read, with deep theological and art historical knowledge.

_"I have a keen interest in the arts….religion is key to cultural literacy."_

Offerings of devotion.

_"You are very dear to me."_

Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He'd been so _blind_.

Something cold nudged his knee. It was the new dog. He looked up at Will and wagged his tail. Will sank down to the floor and buried his fingers in the dog's long fur. The dog licked his face. Will laughed. He would take the dog to the vet later, tomorrow maybe, to scan him for a microchip. He probably already had a name.

"And something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored," Will whispered. "How about I call you Saul, huh?"

Saul whuffed and licked Will's face again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't been looking up the chapter titles so far, I recommend you at least look up the title for this one; I spent like 15 minutes laughing at my own cleverness.


	9. Psalm 27

CHESAPEAKE RIPPER MARTYRS MISSING FBI TRAINEE

Will shut his eyes. At least there were no photos this time, but there was a short biography of FBI trainee Miriam Lass. She was from Mississippi, the daughter of a truck driver and a part-time church bookkeeper, and she had clawed her way up from poverty to earn an undergraduate degree in psychology and, later, a PhD in criminology. She had nursed in her heart, her entire adult life, a desire to work for famed behaviorist Jack Crawford. He had sent her to her death.

"She died because she caught up to him," Mrs. Lass told Tattle-Crime. "We always knew she was a smart girl. We're proud of her. Always have been."

"She didn't go down without a fight, we know that," said Mr. Lass.

The phone rang. Will answered it without looking.

"Father Graham," said Crawford. He sounded tired. "Have you got anything for me? The Ripper left no evidence at the scene, as usual. That Bible verse is all we've got to go on."

"All I can tell you is that the scene was his confession," said Will. "I asked him to confess and seek forgiveness, and this was his way of doing it. We call it the sacrament of Reconciliation. Maybe he sought reconciliation with you, and that was why he gave you back Ms. Lass. Twice dead."

Crawford made a small noise that Will almost didn't hear, but it tugged at his heart. "If that's what he wanted, he would've done better to return her alive."

Will hesitated. He felt each word inside his mouth before he let it out. "Is there something you'd like to talk about, Agent Crawford?"

"No." Crawford's tone turned brusque and formal. "I just want to catch the bastard. That's all the reconciliation I need, Father."

He hung up. Will set his phone back down on his desk. He looked at Saul, who was sprawled on his side on the floor with his eyes closed. "This was my fault, wasn't it?" he asked Saul. Saul opened his eyes but didn't otherwise move, though his perked ears indicated that he was listening. "I asked him to confess, and he killed her. Her death is on my hands."

Saul lifted his head and looked at Will with what Will knew was not a reproachful gaze. He was projecting. Anthropomorphizing a dog.

"I know," he said. "It's not my fault. Or Agent Crawford's. It's not our fault that he's a serial killer."

But I'm still responsible, he didn't say, because he was talking to a fucking dog.

Will called Crawford again.

"What?" Crawford demanded.

"Have you read the Tattle-Crime article?" Will asked.

"God-fucking-dammit--pardon my language, Father. Yes, I have; what about it?"

"She's getting access to the crime scenes, somehow," said Will. "She must have an informant."

"You think I don't know that? Local cops are always happy to make a buck, is my guess. If it's one of my own team I'll hang them out to dry myself, though I won't be happy about it."

Will closed his eyes. He brought to mind the younger male technician, the one who'd looked up the chapter and verse on his phone. "Who's the one, ah, the younger man, with the beard?"

"Zeller?"

"I noticed he had, hmm, a long red hair on his sleeve."

Crawford swore and hung up.

\-----

Will didn't take Saul to the vet the next day. Instead, he went to the kennel and picked up Ruth, Jonah, and Theo. "Dr. Lecter said you would come yesterday," said one of the staff. She was young and blond and pretty. Her name tag said _Carrie_.

"I got held up," Will lied. "Sorry about that."

"Well, it's all paid for," said Carrie. "I'll have Mike bring your dogs out."

Ten minutes later, a tall, gangly youth with long brown hair and pronounced acne scars brought out Will's dogs. They strained against their leashes as soon as they saw Will, ears up, and Mike dropped the leads. Will went down to his knees to greet them, and for a minute all of them were wriggling and yelping and stepping on and over each other in their frenzied enthusiasm. The dogs appeared fit and happy and healthy.

"Thanks," Will said, a few minutes later, after he had gathered his dignity and their leashes. "They weren't any trouble, were they?"

"Nah," said Mike, grinning. "They were a dream. Have a good day, Mr. Graham."

"Same to you."

Once home, Will crated Saul and put him on the porch while the other dogs waited in the Volvo. Only when he was sure that Saul was secure did Will open the hatchback. The dogs bounded out, up the front steps, and right up to the crate. They sniffed each other through the bars, wagging their tails. Theo barked, but Will shushed him. Saul didn't bark at all. He bowed. This was going to be all right, Will thought.

\-----

All the windows and doors stood open. Cold, fresh air blew through the house. The dogs gamboled in and out, tongues lolling and tails wagging. Will sat at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad and a pen, writing a letter.

His phone rang. The screen said PRIVATE NUMBER. Will answered it.

"You got Zeller fired," said Lounds.

" _You_ got him fired," said Will. "I'm sure you have a backup plan for him. He won't be the first informant you've screwed."

"What the hell do you care? And what's going on with you and the Ripper, anyway? Zee told me the going theory is that the Ripper's found God and he's going into retirement."

"I don't know," said Will. "Maybe. I'm not actually psychic, you know."

"Well, remember that you owe me. If the Ripper gets in touch with you, I'd better be the first one to know it."

"You'd better lay low," said Will. "Crawford's going to come after you next. He threatened me with obstruction of justice once, you know."

"They're just threats. He can't arrest me for writing an article."

"No, but he can sue you, just like anyone else. Good afternoon, Ms. Lounds. Thank you for calling."

Will hung up and finished his letter. It contained a full profile of the Chesapeake Ripper and a description of how Dr. Hannibal Lecter fit that profile.

_If this letter has fallen into the hands of law enforcement authorities, it means I have disappeared under mysterious circumstances and am most likely dead. I suggest searching Dr. Lecter's home. Pay special attention to his meat; I recommend DNA testing._

_Please ask Agent Crawford of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit if he would like to adopt one of my dogs. The rest may go to members of the parish who are able and willing to take one in. The long-haired dappled one, Saul, I recently found on the street and may have a microchip. Please return him to his family if possible._

_God bless you and keep you,_

_Father William Graham_

In a separate letter, he left instructions for the priest who would be assigned to his parish.

Will folded them both into a blank envelope and sealed it. He sat for a moment with his pen poised over the white paper. Finally, he addressed it TO THE POLICE WHO HAVE COME TO SEARCH MY HOME FOR EVIDENCE and left it propped up inside the medicine cabinet.

He microwaved a burrito for dinner and ate it on the porch with his dogs sprawled around him. 

_Dear God: Thank You for this miraculous world that You have created. The path I've walked has been difficult at times and strewn with rocks and fallen obstacles, but it has led me to You and Your blessings, and I would not ask for anything different. No, Lord, not even Hannibal Lecter, for he is one of Your creations as well. Typhoid and swans, Lord. It all comes from the same place._

_Was this a test you set before me? A test of my faith, a test of my theology? I believe that You are love, Lord, and that all those who love know Your face, Your touch, Your blessings. I love, and so I know that You are always with me, and I know that You will be with me for whatever comes after._

When the processed lump of beans and cheese sat leaden in his stomach, he picked up his phone and texted Hannibal. He spent ten minutes composing the message.

_If you would like reconciliation, please meet me in my office tomorrow morning at 9am._

He swallowed and let the phone fall into his lap. His hands shook. Hannibal did not reply. Will stayed on the porch until the sun disappeared behind the trees and the cold and dark came out to claw against his bare legs and feet. The dogs had long gone back inside. Hannibal still had not replied. Finally, Will turned off his phone.

\-----

Will opened his eyes on a gray and gloomy beach. Charcoal clouds with bulging bellies hung low over the slate-gray sea, and a chill wind whipped past Will and flung cold spray in his face. Gritty sand clung to the bottoms of his feet. He curled his arms around himself as Hannibal stepped out of the white-topped waves, bone-dry and pristine in one of his three-piece suits. Stars rained from the sky to hiss their deaths in the sea and on the shore.

All around him gathered Will's parishioners, and more: Mrs. Smrha, Agent Crawford and his technicians, and even Freddie Lounds. They crowded past Will with apologetic looks, their shoulders hunched, and when they got close enough to Hannibal, they applauded. Hannibal smiled and bowed. He caught Will's eye and winked at him.

Crawford leaned in close, even as his palms slapped against each other. "Who is there like Hannibal Lecter?" he wondered. "Who can fight against him?"

Freddie Lounds raised her hand, as if she were at a press conference. "Are you interested in putting out a memoir?"

Hannibal held out his hand, palm up, toward Will, and the crowd parted to clear a path between them. Their stares pressed against Will like a physical weight. His lungs burned with breathlessness. Will didn't take his eyes from Hannibal, and he didn't move. He put his hand out to the side and felt the weight of a sword in his palm. Its heat made him ill. Hannibal tilted his head like a curious cat. "You're bleeding," he said.

Will looked down. A crimson stain spread outward from the center of his chest, but it didn't hurt. "It's the blood of the Lamb," he replied.

A shrill, electronic squeal shattered the dream.

Will gasped awake all at once, heart pounding. It took him a long few moments to find his alarm, and afterward he lay in his mussed sheets until his heart calmed down enough that he no longer felt like dry heaving over the toilet. His bedclothes reeked of sweat. He forced himself out of bed and into the shower. His knees trembled so badly that he had to sit, and he stayed there on the floor of his bathtub until the water went cold. His forehead radiated pain. He'd left his medication at Hannibal's house, two days ago.

His stomach threatened to turn inside out at the mere suggestion of breakfast. Will started coffee and poured the dogs' food. They wagged their tails harder when they saw the carton of eggs. He had exactly four eggs left, and he cracked each one over a bowl of kibble. They did their untidy gobbling on the back porch as Will refreshed their water dishes, filling them to the brim. He left an extra bucket of water on the back porch, just in case, and propped the door.

Saul tried to follow him out the front door. "No, you stay here," Will said. "Stay." Saul just cocked his head and wagged his tail. "Stay!"

It began to snow on the way to Baltimore. Will kept the stag in his rearview mirror all the way there.

\-----

The church was dark. Will had forgotten that it was New Year's Eve. He stood for a moment on the sanctuary steps, watching flakes drift down from the sky, before he let himself in. The building seemed to hold its breath. Will walked up and down the empty pews, his footsteps muffled, before finally approaching the altar. He knelt.

When he finished praying, he rose and left the sanctuary. He locked the doors behind him and went up to his office. There, he changed into his cassock and put on his collar. He didn't usually wear the cassock when he met with people in his office, but this seemed like the occasion for it.

Five minutes until Hannibal was due to arrive. Will sat at his desk and pulled his battered old Gideon Bible toward him. He opened it to a random page.

_Psalm 27_

_Triumphant Song of Confidence_

_The Lord is my light and salvation;_  
Whom shall I fear?  
The Lord is the strength of my life;  
Of whom shall I be afraid?  
When the wicked came against me  
To eat up my flesh,  
My enemies and foes  
They stumbled and fell... 

Will smiled.

A knock sounded at the door. He glanced at the clock. Hannibal was a few minutes early, but that didn't surprise him. "Come in."

Hannibal looked the same as he always did, dressed in a plaid suit with a pearl-colored shirt and a silver-and-red paisley tie, his hair gelled back in that fashion Will had always loathed and never told him. Will did not expect the stiff heat that sprang up around his eyes, and he blinked until it receded. He offered Hannibal a smile, and Hannibal was quick to smile back.

"Will," Hannibal said. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too," Will said, and meant it. "Take a seat." He motioned to the chairs by the window. Hannibal chose the one closest to the door, and Will took the one opposite. The orchid on the windowsill drooped in a neglected fashion.

Hannibal sat forward, his elbows on his knees. Will mirrored him. "So," said Hannibal. "You are offering me the sacrament of reconciliation, as you call it."

Will gave a single nod. He pressed his palms together between his knees. "I am."

Hannibal tilted his head and gave Will a slow blink. "Will I need to do penance?"

"That depends," Will replied. "Why don't you begin by telling me your sins?"

\---end---

**Author's Note:**

>  **Acknowledgments:** pangaeastarseed for being a great partner and an outstanding artist; tiltedsyllogism for relentless beta and theological coaching even though she doesn't even go here; emungere for enabling me; dasmondschaf, who started everything by telling me about this new "Hannibal" thing she was watching and showed me pictures of Will Graham's dogs.
> 
> I'm glad you're here. ♥
> 
> [coloredink.tumblr.com](http://coloredink.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [sumiwrites.wordpress.com](https://sumiwrites.wordpress.com/) (if you wanna see the books I've written)


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